Twenty Sherolly Prompts
by MizJoely
Summary: Just what the title says. This will be twenty Sherlolly stories from twenty lovely followers of mine on tumblr. Because Sherlock and Molly are always worth celebrating! Ratings will vary per story but will be clearly marked.
1. Unsuppressed

_A/N: So I recently reached 1000 followers on tumblr and thought I'd throw open my ask box for fic requests. Rather than putting them in Sherlollipops, I've decided to give them their own home. Just like with Sherlollipops, they'll be short one shots and ficlets, with ratings from K+ to M (which this one is definitely M). Thank you to everyone who submitted these prompts, and to all my followers and to all my readers here and on Archive of Our Own; you all make writing this stuff worth it!_

_tillyblr on tumblr said: __Hi, For 1000 followers I'm not sure if I have already sent this but my tablet was playing up. Sherlock and Molly omegaverse, Omega Molly has been on suppressants since her first heat, as she works at the hospital St Barts, the air con pumps out extra suppressants so as to not have staff and patients go into heat. Molly knows that Sherlock is an Alpha and has in the past nearly spiked into heat but now takes extra suppressants. However they have worn off, and no longer work but has not realised._

* * *

Of course the day the airborne suppressant system, at least the lines feeding the morgue, failed was the same day Molly neglected to take her morning pill – and then forgot to bring her afternoon pill with her. She'd overslept; Toby had knocked over her alarm clock sometime during the night, and in her rush to get to work as close to on time as possible, Molly had foregone all but the most basic part of her morning ritual. She realized her mistake as soon as she arrived at St. Bart's but then the bodies of a triple homicide came in and she was too busy to worry about it, reasoning that she could always dash home at lunch. But the autopsies proved to be trickier than she'd expected, Dr. Singh was called away on a family emergency, and what with one thing or another, it was two o'clock in the afternoon and she'd had no time to do more than grab a bag of crisps and a bottle of vitamin water from the vending machines before she was suddenly elbows deep in the third corpse.

Things still might have been all right if Sherlock Holmes hadn't come into the morgue to look at the bodies just as she was washing up. Lestrade had already been by, taken Molly's preliminary findings and left; Molly had thought his Alpha scent was stronger than usual but had put it down to the heightened awareness she always had when murder was involved in the bodies she was examining.

If she'd just taken the time to read her email, she'd have seen the high priority alert message HR had sent out, warning that there was a malfunction in the suppressant system leading to the basement areas of the hospital.

But no. Of course everything would come together in the perfect storm to cause Molly to spike into heat the second the only Alpha she craved came rushing up to her side, demanding to see the bodies she'd just placed into their storage slots.

It had almost happened in the past; the first time she met him, then again just after the Jim fiasco, and again on the night he'd asked her to help him fake his death when the Jim fiasco turned out to be more than just a ruined relationship. Only the extra suppressants she'd started taking after the second occurrence had kept the third occurrence from teetering over the edge into a full-blown Heat; that and the airborne suppressants supplied by St. Bart's were usually more than enough to keep things under control.

So much for careful planning and good intentions.

She turned to face him, taking in his scent: pure Alpha male, spiky with adrenaline and androgen, with heady undertones of the light cologne he wore as a grudging courtesy at the behest of more than one of his male colleagues, a way to mask or at least tone down his own overpowering Alpha aroma. As Molly had heard Anderson bitterly complaining on more than one occasion: "Bloody bastard's an Omega magnet and he doesn't even want any of them, men or women! Sodding machine!"

She opened her mouth to try and tell him no, she wasn't pulling the bodies back out, that she'd already given her findings to Greg, but her mouth was dry and a flush of heat like a sheet of fire went over her body. Her thoughts flew from her mind and all she could do was gape at him in shock.

For his part, Sherlock's expression went from impatient to startled to something she'd never seen from him before, certainly not aimed at her – intensely focused, almost predatory as he crowded her against the cold steel table that had formerly held her autopsy instruments, now meticulously returned to their proper places. The table itself had been cleaned and sterilized and was covered with a thin paper cover to indicate its readiness for future use.

"You've gone into Heat," Sherlock said, breathing heavily. He inclined his head and Molly automatically tilted hers, allowing him better access to her neck. "Thank God," he groaned as he shrugged off his coat and tossed his scarf carelessly to the floor. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her, a fervent, possessive kiss like none Molly had ever experienced, even from her few Alpha boyfriends.

When the kiss broke off, she finally found her words. "Thank God? Why?"

"Because biologically speaking we're immensely compatible, and emotionally speaking I'm finally ready to let you know how I feel," he growled, his breath hot on her ear even against the feverish warmth of her skin. He dragged his tongue across her throat, Molly arching her neck almost to the point of pain to allow him access. After nipping lightly at her pulse point, he pulled back and met her confused, hopeful gaze. His eyes were blazing, barely any blue left to them even in the harsh light of the morgue, the pupils blown back farther than she'd ever seen them. Her own eyes, she assumed, must look much the same. "I love you, Molly. I want to Bond with you, to have children with you, to spend the rest of my life with you as my mate, my wife…"

Molly interrupted him with an inarticulate sound of pure joy, throwing herself into his arms and kissing him with a passion born of pure joy. Sherlock might have been able to lie about his feelings to that Beta Janine, but there was no way he could fool an Omega whose sense of smell had been sharpened by a Heat as intense as this one; she could literally smell it if he was lying to her. And he wasn't. Every word he spoke was nothing but the simplest and most complex of truths.

He loved her. He wanted her. He wanted to father her children.

With a growl, Molly began stripping off her clothes, flinging them about heedlessly while Sherlock did the same. Then she looked wildly around, fighting to maintain some semblance of control as she sought the perfect location for their first coupling. The morgue itself was out of the question; anyone could walk in on them, and although once Stage 2 hit her she wouldn't care if she and Sherlock were having sex in front of a live studio audience, at the moment she could manage just the tiniest squidge of modesty. "My office," she panted, tugging on Sherlock's hand and trying to keep her eyes up and not stare greedily at his cock, so proudly erect and clearly ready for her. Just as she was ready for him; aching, throbbing with need, her thighs soaked with her juices and the sweat that was pouring off her body.

He went with her more than willingly, allowing her to pull him along, his fingers curled tightly around hers, his other hand tugging her hair free of the elastic that she'd used to tie it up earlier in the day. Once they reached the small office she shared with the other pathologists, she slammed the door shut and swiftly dialed Mike Stamford's number. "Hallo, Mike? It's Molly…yes, I…what?" She gave Sherlock as stern a look as she could manage; he was tugging on her hair, crowding his body against hers, his hands cupping her breasts and his teeth nipping at the nape of her neck while he slid his cock against the cleft of her arse. Not conducive to allowing her to finish this vital conversation. "No, I didn't see the notification, but I'm afraid it's…ungggh…too late for, for…What? Yes, I'm afraid so. In my office. Alone? No, mmmmm, not alone, no definitely not alo…Hmm? Oh, uh, Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock. And we'd very much like not to be disturbed for the next hour or so if possible…yes, I promise we'll, mmmph, get a, a cab…"

Unable to continue speaking, Molly dropped the receiver vaguely in the direction of the cradle and turned back to the infuriating Alpha who hadn't ceased his attentions to her body for so much as a second while she'd been trying to explain things to Mike. Her supervisor. Yes, there were special circumstances allowed when an Omega unexpectedly went into Heat, but she still would have liked to have been able to speak a bit more coherently!

She opened her mouth to scold Sherlock for his shameless behavior, only to have him take advantage of the way she'd turned to face him by lacing his fingers in her hair and tugging her face up for another eager kiss.

That kiss was the tipping point; as Sherlock's tongue demanded and received entry into her mouth, as he tugged at her hair and slid his other hand down to cup her arse, as she felt his cock rubbing up against her pussy, her ability to think was entirely overwhelmed. There was nothing left but instinct; want and need and her Alpha between her legs.

Molly was the one who swept the contents of the desk onto the floor with a crash and the fluttering of paper; Molly was the one who clambered eagerly onto the now-empty surface and rose on her knees so that she could spread a fusillade of demanding kisses over Sherlock's face and throat. Sherlock was the one groaning and gasping as Molly's small, dainty hands encircled his thick, hot cock. He was the one watching, open mouthed, eyes wide, as she palmed the tip of his cock, coating her hands with precum before giving him a wicked smile and smearing her breasts with the viscous fluid. When she reached between her legs and did the same with her own fluids, however, something in him seemed to snap; he growled and bent his head to nuzzle her sticky, damp breasts, breathing in the mingled aroma of their bodily fluids, sucking greedily at her nipples and reveling in the taste of that heady, musky scent on his tongue.

He mimicked her actions, dipping impatient fingers into her cleft with one hand and squeezing the head of his cock with the other, then rubbing his fingers together and sliding them into her mouth. She sucked greedily at his finger, moaning at the taste she'd teased him into trying out, then gasped as he grabbed her by the hips and yanked her against his body. "We're done playing, Molly," he snarled, lifting her roughly off the desk so that her feet landed on the floor, her back to him. With one hand he pressed on her back, and she eagerly complied, widening her stance and lowering her upper body so that her cheek was pressed flat to the desk's surface, her arms supporting her and her chest gaining some measure of relief as it rested on the cool metal.

"You're ready for me, Molly, say you are," he demanded, teasing the entrance to her pussy with the tip of his cock. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," she moaned in agreement. God, of course she wanted him; she'd wanted him from the moment she first met him, how could he possibly need to be reassured of that fact now?

"Tell me you love me," he commanded roughly, his voice low and gravelly as he eased the first few inches of his cock inside her.

She felt his thickness stretching her walls; Alpha cocks were as dominant as any other aspect of their biology, and it had been a long time since she'd had one between her legs. Thank God Sherlock retained enough control over himself to go slowly at first; Omegas had been damaged by their mates being too rough, moving too quickly even with the softening of the tissues that came with the onset of Heat. Later, when she could think again, Molly would understand that this meant that Sherlock wasn't nearly as inexperienced as everyone seemed to think he was, but for now all she could do was gasp and pant and relax her muscles as best she could as he continued to ease his way inside her.

However, he stopped, nearly pulling out as he repeated his last command, louder this time. "Tell me, Molly. Tell me you love me!"

"I love you!" she cried, and he pushed back into her, not stopping this time until he'd fully seated himself.

"Good," he said, sounding extremely satisfied. "I love you too. Which I already told you. But now we've both…unnnfff!" He ended up a sputtering mess as Molly, finally comfortable with the weight and thickness of his cock inside her, moved her hips backward with a sharp, demanding motion.

"Shut up and fuck me, Sherlock," she snarled, and he immediately complied, his hands on her hips, gripping tightly as he snapped his own hips forward and back, setting up a punishing rhythm that soon had her writhing and crying out in pleasure as she reached her first climax.

Not long after that heady moment she felt the sensation of increased fullness at the entrance to her cunt, signaling the increase in thickness at the base of Sherlock's cock. His Knot was forming, ready to fill her in a way no non-Omega could comprehend; an Alpha could fuck anyone – another Alpha, a Beta, male, female – and it wouldn't matter. No Knot would form without the stimulation of the Omega's hormonal changes from going into Heat. And that feeling, simply put, was amazing.

Molly wailed as Sherlock's Knot formed; he thrust shallowly into her cunt and then roared out his first orgasm while Molly shuddered with her second. The feel of his body over hers, the impatient nipping of his teeth on her throat, and she turned her head to the perfect angle to allow him to sink those sharp Alpha canines into her jugular. Once he took her blood into his mouth and left his saliva in the wound, the pair bond would start to form. Molly would do the same to him during their second coupling, once they'd returned to either his flat or hers, when she would ride him mercilessly, but that was later. For now Sherlock sucked down the blood flowing from her throat eagerly, not even removing his mouth as he rolled them off the desk and onto the uncarpeted tile floor. He made sure to land so that Molly ended up on top of him, then turned them so they rested on their sides, still firmly tied together by his Knot in her cunt and his mouth on her throat and Molly knew she'd never been so content in her life.

He wasn't going to be an easy mate, Sherlock Holmes, but he was the only one she'd ever wanted.

Oh yes, Molly Hooper was more than content, and she knew that no matter what the ups and downs of the future, she would always love this man, and always find happiness in knowing he loved her back.


	2. Morning After

**Morning After**

_clmpr on tumblr said: __Congrats on the followers Captain, could you do a funny panicky morning after pregnancy fic? ( when you have the time) __So yes, either unprotected or "wardrobe" failure during a one night stand. I know it sounds like a bad romcom but socially inept geniuses dealing with the fall out and the reactions from their little circle sounds like fun in my evil little head, plus I have an insane love for babylock (but i am trying to find treatment for my condition)_

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for reviewing the first story, here is number two of twenty! Rated M for smexy times!_

* * *

_No condom._

That was Molly Hooper's first, panicky thought the morning after she and Sherlock had sex the first time. They hadn't used a condom. Normally that wouldn't be a problem; it had been six months since she had broken up with Tom, and the two of them hadn't had sex for a good two months before that, and had used condoms every single time. And Sherlock hadn't shared needles when he was using drugs for the Magnussen case, and hadn't slept with Janine in spite of what she told the tabloids, and hadn't had sex before that since long before his two years as a dead man.

They were both clean, no worries about STIs, they'd reassured one another when they'd found themselves in Sherlock's flat after she'd successfully helped him and John Watson take down the Moriarty impersonator who'd attempted to hold Britain hostage to the sum of £10 billion. Of course, the two of them were in the midst of removing one another's clothing at the time so it was possible that they hadn't been thinking clearly…

No, Molly thought with a slightly hysterical laugh as she burrowed her head beneath the pillows and attempted to hide from the truth she'd jolted herself awake with. They certainly hadn't been thinking clearly. Either of them.

"_Molly, you were absolutely amazing," Sherlock breathed as he stared at her soaking wet form. She beamed at him proudly; a compliment from Sherlock was as rare as a blue diamond these days, when he'd been so consumed with rooting out the truth about the supposed return of his most implacable foe. _

"_You weren't half bad yourself," she replied with a cheeky wink as she took in his equally wet form. John, Mary and Greg had left for their respective homes, Mary fussing over whether Mycroft's PA had done an adequate job watching over baby Lindsey and John attempting to reassure her that Andrea – although he kept calling her 'Anthea' – was more than competent to keep their two-month-old daughter not only safe but happy and comfortable as well. Greg had hurried off to meet up with his newly minted fiancée, Sally Donovan, and Sherlock and Molly had found themselves alone._

_The storm raging outside hadn't abated one single bit, and Molly was reluctant to brave it once again. Nor did Sherlock seem particularly minded to send her on his way once Mrs. Hudson had brought up tea for the two of them to share and clucked over their drenched selves. Sherlock had assured his landlady that he would find something dry for Molly to wear and the older woman had gone back down to her flat, muttering something about herbal soothers that Molly didn't quite catch._

_Then Sherlock had given her that lovely compliment and she'd given him her semi-joking response and without further warning in either looks or words, Sherlock had pressed her up against the closed door to the flat and commenced snogging her breathless._

Molly groaned at the memory. No, not at the memory; it was one she would always cherish. No, she groaned at the stupidity she and Sherlock had both demonstrated when neither one of them had so much as thought of other consequences of unprotected sex other than STIs. No, they'd both reassured each other that they were clean, stripped off their sopping wet clothes and left them lying in sodden heaps by the door, then fallen naked together on Sherlock's sofa, where she'd ridden him like a rodeo star, wrenching groans and curses from his lips as he nipped and sucked at her breasts when she'd leaned down give herself a better angle. His fingers had slipped between their bodies, touching her exactly where she needed him and she'd come like a freight train, and just as noisily. He'd joined her not long after, his hands moving to her hips in order to better pound her up and down on his heated shaft, leaving – Molly peeked from behind the pillows – yes, finger-tip bruises now decorated her hips, little purple marks to show that Sherlock had, indeed, Been Here.

_As soon as their spent forms had recovered enough to move again, Molly had gulped down her now-cold cup of tea and Sherlock had slid from beneath her, rising to his feet with that innate grace he possessed. As soon as she finished he'd taken her hand and led her to his bedroom, pulling her down onto the mattress and wrapping his long, lean form around hers, his hands gently cupping her breasts and his lips on her neck. She'd breathlessly asked if he was sure he was ready for another go; he'd guided her hand down to stroke his sticky, warm length and had been stunned to feel it hardening beneath her touch. God, it hadn't even been ten minutes! Who did he think he was, Superman?_

_When she'd groaned that comment out loud he'd chuckled against her neck and commenced teasing her nipples in earnest as he said, "Sorry, no, just a man with a very rapid recovery period. Made for some interesting nights at Uni. Shall we see if we can break a few of my records, or are you not up to that particular challenge, Miss Hooper?"_

_The sound of her name, so formal on his lips, had sent a flush of heat straight to her groin, helped along by the feel of his fingers stroking her breasts and then his mouth returning to sucking on her neck. One hand snaked down between her legs, which she'd willingly – oh so willingly – parted for him. He'd taken her like that, from behind, the two of them lying on their sides, his fingers working her expertly until she was a panting, writhing mess. She came just as hard and just as loudly as she had the first time, and although he took a bit longer to join her, the sound and feel of his orgasm was nearly as satisfying to her as her own._

Three more times, Molly remembered with a wondering grin that quickly turned to a grimace. Three more times, five times in all, with no condom. Not once.

And her no longer on the pill after breaking up with Tom and not wanting to deal with anything that reminded her of him in the least littlest bit.

She jumped to her feet, panic finally fully blossoming as she belatedly realized she was alone. The sound of water running in the bathroom told her where Sherlock was; without stopping to think, feeling only the blind urge to run, she gathered up her still-damp clothes from in front of the door, threw them on, shoved her sockless feet into her shoes, snatched up her handbag and mobile and bolted, clattering down the stairs and out the door before her better instincts could catch up to her.

A half hour later found her pacing around her tiny flat, her fat Persian cat Toby watching her disinterestedly from his perch on the back of the sofa while she wondered aloud what the hell she should do. She was mumbling about getting to a chemist's and getting her hands on a morning after pill when her door was unceremoniously shoved open, revealing a wild-eyed Sherlock standing there.

Wearing only a dressing gown over a pair of silky black boxers. Barefoot, hair soaking wet, with his mobile clutched in his free hand. He skidded to a halt directly in front of her shocked form, taking in the sight of her, the tension in his body visibly draining as he met her eyes. "You're all right," he said, sounding faintly accusatory.

"Of course I'm all right, why wouldn't I be?" Molly asked, genuinely confused by his overreaction. Yes, she'd bolted from his flat like Toby frightened by the vacuum, but surely the self-proclaimed deductive genius must have been able to read why she'd done so by the clues she'd left behind!

Apparently not, as she quickly discovered. Sherlock lifted the mobile to his lips and began speaking, a rapid stream of words Molly nevertheless had no difficulty understanding. "She's here, at her flat, she's fine, she apparently left on her own recog…no Mycroft, I didn't waste any time attempting to look for clues to her disappearance, that's why I called you and Lestrade, to do it for me while I…yes, I suppose I might have overreacted, but honestly, Mycroft, can you blame me? After the past three months…yes, yes, next time I'll be sure to confirm that a kidnapping's taken place before I call for reinforcements, fine, will that make you happy?"

Without another word he clicked off the phone and chucked it onto Molly's low coffee table, then strode across the room and pulled her into his arms for a long, rather desperate kiss. She returned it enthusiastically, but when his hands began to roam under her jumper she pulled back, exclaiming, "Sherlock! Are you mad?"

He looked extremely hurt by her reaction, but quickly hid it behind a mask of cold indifference. "Ah, I see. Last night was meant as a one-off, my apologies for misreading the situation between us. I'll be going now, no need to see me out."

As he turned and started to stalk off, Molly came out of her shock and grabbed his arm in both her hands, tugging him back around to face her. "No! That's not what I…no, it wasn't a one-off, not for me, sorry! I just…"

"Then why did you leave without saying good-bye?" he demanded, looking more lost and bewildered than Molly had ever seen him. "Why did you stop me just now?"

She stared up at him; did he honestly not get it? "Sherlock, we had sex last night. Several times."

He beamed at her. "Yes, five times to be exact, and it was quite exhilarating." His smile faded a bit. "You seemed to enjoy it as much as I did, but if I left you unsatisfied, all you had to do was say so; I promise I can do better in future if you'll just give me a chance…"

Molly gave a disbelieving laugh, then covered her mouth and shook her head to reassure him that she wasn't actually laughing at him. She laid her free hand on his chest, giving herself a second to recover before saying, "Oh, no, trust me, I was very satisfied last night. Every single time. No worries there, Sherlock, I promise. No, it's just that…we had _unprotected_ sex. Five times. And I'm not on the pill any longer, I haven't been since…well. Since Tom and I broke things off."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "I see. So you're concerned about pregnancy, is that it?"

"Well, yes," Molly replied, narrowing her eyes at him. He didn't sound nearly as concerned about the possibility as she was; why wasn't the prospect of having gotten her up the duff bothering him?

When she asked that very question, he shrugged and pulled her into his arms, kissing her again before answering. "Not worried about it. You want to have children, I already knew that, and we aren't either of us getting any younger. So if you are pregnant – you didn't stop at the chemist's for some levonorgestrel, did you? No, you didn't have time, you came straight here, excellent!" He beamed at her again while she blinked in confusion. "So if you are pregnant, then that's fine, we'll have gotten a good start on the three children you want to have. It is still three, isn't it?" he interrupted himself to ask as he peered intently at her slack-jawed face.

Molly nodded, unable to speak just at the moment, overwhelmed by everything Sherlock had said and done since arriving at her flat this morning. When she finally did manage to string together a coherent sentence, she asked, "And you're all right with that, us having children? Or at child at least? Even though we've just got together and haven't even sorted out where this relationship is going, or if it even is a relationship or, or…anything?"

Sherlock scowled at her in that way he had when he was hearing someone say something absolutely idiotic. "Of course it's a relationship, Molly; do keep up! You've been in love with me for nearly seven years now, even when you were with Meat Dagger, even though I actually made myself believe you had gotten over me and were happy with him. Then I saw you stab him with the fork at John and Mary's wedding and I knew I was wrong. But then, I always miss something. But the Magnussen case needed sorting and the drug use got a bit out of hand and you were extremely angry with me about that and about Janine and…well. It was never the right time, was it? Only it is now and I have no intentions of ever letting anything come between us again."

He fell silent and Molly took a deep breath before saying, "Right. So we're in a relationship and it's long term and you're fine with me being pregnant, which we don't know for sure that I am, but if I am, then you're actually fine with it. And you're willing to be a dad and a boyfriend…"

"Husband," he interrupted her firmly. "I'll have Mycroft get the paperwork rushed though so we can be married straight away. Invite who you like, we'll have it at my parent's home, they'll love you, they already half-do from what I've told them about you…"

It was Molly's turn to interrupt Sherlock. "You've talked to your parents about me? When? Why?"

He waved her questions away with an impatient scowl. "Does it really matter? When you meet them I'm sure Mummy will be happy to bore you with all the tedious details. Later," he added, the scowl softening as he ran his fingers along her jaw and cupped her face in his hands. "After we've spent some more quality time together." He gave her a smoldering look that made Molly forget about the ache between her legs and all the panic and doubt she'd been feeling since awakening. With a seductive smile, she grabbed his hand and started tugging him toward her bedroom.

Neither of them remembered that Sherlock had left the door to her flat open until a few hours later, when her elderly neighbor yoo-hoo'd through the door that she'd found Toby wandering the halls and was putting him back inside. The sound of the door closing was the only other noise from outside Molly's bedroom that caught their attention for the rest of the day.

Two days later they were married; nine months after that, Meredith Hooper-Holmes was born, followed a year later by her brother Robert. A year after his birth twins Scarlett and Edmund were welcomed into the world.

And Molly could honestly say she'd never ever been happier in her life.

A sentiment with which Sherlock wholeheartedly concurred.


	3. Hands Off

_ohmyolicity said: __Hey! A possesive dark!lock and a sweet Molly. Thank you very much! _

_Rated T for adult sitch and some mild swearing._

* * *

Molly was laughing and chatting with Greg Lestrade when a tall, dark thundercloud named Sherlock Holmes swept her into his arms, snarled out a, "It's time for me to take Molly home now, Gavin" and hustled her out of the room before she could raise the breath to protest.

"It's Greg, you git!" came the DI's irritated voice from behind them, then Sherlock was shoving her coat at her and practically dragging her out of the house and over to the dark blue rental car parked by the curb.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" Molly demanded as he opened her door and gestured impatiently for her to enter. "Why are we leaving so early?"

"Because _Greg_ couldn't keep his bloody eyes and hands off of you!" Sherlock growled. "Ever since he and his wife divorced, he's been trying to get you into his bed, and I'm tired of it!" He slammed a fist against the roof of the car, and Molly jumped a bit in surprise.

Ever since the Magnussen shooting and the Moriarty return, Sherlock had been different. Harder, colder, and yet, at the same time, more passionate about things. Quicker to anger, slower to smile or show the pure enjoyment of life he had exhibited so often in the past.

With everyone except her. Until tonight. They'd been at John and Mary's for a quiet New Year's Eve party; Sherlock had insisted on escorting her, relieving her private duty guards – the ones he'd insisted that his brother Mycroft assign to her since he considered her a target of Moriarty's – for the night. Molly had acquiesced, not out of docility or fear, but because she wanted to try and puzzle out what, exactly, was driving Sherlock to such emotional extremes. Surely it wasn't killing Magnussen; yes, that had been awful, but when he'd explained why he'd done it – with Mary's permission – Molly understood. He really had nothing to be sorry about; the man was a monster. A different kind of monster than Jim Moriarty, but a monster nonetheless.

Molly shivered a bit thinking about her psychotic ex-boyfriend. If, of course, he could even be called that. Oh, psychotic, no doubt about it, but ex-boyfriend? Did it really count as a relationship if she was the only one who was honestly invested in it?

Irrelevant, unimportant; what mattered right now wasn't her ex, it was her…well. Whatever she and Sherlock were, which she was still very, very confused about. When he'd burst into the break room at St. Bart's where she'd been waiting with Greg, after that disturbing broadcast Moriarty had sent out, Sherlock had looked wild, almost terrified. He'd relaxed upon seeing her and Greg sitting together on the ratty old sofa, then scowled and jerked her to her feet, pressing a fevered kiss on her lips and then pulling away with a mumbled apology.

He hadn't said a word to Greg at the time, she recalled. Not until the DI had started talking about police protection and safe houses. Then Sherlock had announced that his brother had men already assigned as Molly's bodyguards, and the subject had changed to Moriarty's back-from-the-dead presence.

The New Year's Eve party had been a spur-of-the-moment decision on John and Mary's part, an attempt to keep their lives as normal as possible now that the two of them were reconciled. Sherlock hadn't planned to attend, but when Molly insisted she wanted to go – she was temporarily staying at Baker Street, she and her cat Toby having taken up residence in John's old bedroom on the top floor – Sherlock had decided to come as well. Not only to come, but to escort her. And now he was acting like a jealous boyfriend, when he'd given her no signs that the kiss he'd bestowed upon her six days earlier had been anything more than the result of adrenaline-fueled relief.

"Sherlock," Molly said as she buttoned up her coat, "what the hell is going on? And don't give me any nonsense about your being worried about me because of Jim Moriarty," she added angrily, stuffing her hands in her pockets and pulling out her gloves. "You've been acting, well, a bit odd ever since you…kissed me. Which, by the way, I still don't know why you did it. Kiss me, I mean."

There. She'd finally said it, brought it out into the open. She fully expected Sherlock to just brush it off, or to ignore her words altogether.

What she wasn't expecting was the dark glitter in his eyes as he stalked over to her, shoving her body between his and the car. Or the way his hands landed so possessively on her arms, as he lowered his head and whispered in her ear, "Oh, Molly, don't play coy with me. You know very well why I kissed you."

"Tell me," she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut as he ghosted his lips over her throat. The wind was cold, blowing her hair into her face, but she ignored it, feeling a flush of warmth stealing over her body – entirely due to the way Sherlock's body was so aggressively pressed up against her own. "Please," she added, curling her fingers into the lapels of his black Belstaff.

Instead of answering, he let out a low growl before turning his head to capture her lips with his own for a punishing kiss. His hand moved up to tangle in her hair, his thumbs resting on her cheekbones beneath her eyes as she opened her mouth obediently to the demanding thrust of his tongue.

The pulled apart after a long, heady moment, both gasping for breath, Sherlock's hands still possessively cradling her face. He rested his forehead on hers, eyes closed, and they simply stood there for a long moment before he spoke again. "You're mine, Molly. You've always been mine, I just haven't always had the good sense to recognize it. And no one is going to take you away from me – not Lestrade, not any of those idiots you keep dating, and certainly not James Moriarty." He pulled his head back and stared down at her, eyes almost unreadable in the near darkness. "Do you understand me, Molly?"

She nodded, unable to speak, her heart pounding as she heard the words she'd longed to hear ever since first meeting the man standing over her so protectively. Yes, he was darker, had more of an edge to him, but he was also still Sherlock Holmes, the man she loved.

And now she knew that, to him, she was Molly Hooper, the woman _he_ loved.

No matter what the future brought, they would face it together – and prevail.


	4. Marry Me

_Prompt from thestormweaver: how about a fic where Molly is flat out tired of the dance between herself and Sherlock and proposes to him._

_Well, here it is, and it was written in about ten seconds after I came up with the idea and I hope you like it anyway! Rated K+_

* * *

"Molly, if you'll just hand me that slide, I think I can…"

"No."

Sherlock looked up in real shock, at both Molly's flat refusal to assist him – he'd told her it was for a case, hadn't he? – and the intensity of emotion that single word held. Was she angry at him again? He'd stayed well away from drugs after the Magnussen incident, and had given her his solemn word that he would never again fake an engagement – or any kind of romantic attachment – for a case. In fact, ever since he'd been shot and her own engagement had ended (funny how happy he was about that, the second incident of course, not the first), he'd considered himself to have been on his best behavior as far as Molly was concerned.

So why, then, was she refusing to assist him now? Was it the Moriarty thing, his temporary exile, or was she perhaps simply having a bad day? He considered asking if she was on her period, but recalled from painful past experience exactly how bad an idea that would be.

Besides, he had her schedule memorized; she was still at least two weeks away from 'that time of the month', as Mrs. Hudson and his mother both called it.

"Ask me why not, Sherlock," Molly said while he blinked at her. Only a second had passed while his thoughts had flitted through his mind, but clearly she understood that he wasn't simply staring at her unthinkingly.

"Why not?" he repeated obediently, eyes narrowing as he took in her defensive posture; the arms crossed over her chest, the tightness of her lips, the rapid blinking of her eyes and the way her left hip was jutted out all signaled that she was about to tell him something she was nervous about.

"Because you're not running tests for a case, or even for a real experiment," she replied. "You're just running tests as an excuse to be here, in the lab with me. Aren't you."

He blinked, his mind actually going blank as he tried to process how very well Molly Hooper had, yet again, deduced him. John would never have figured it out, but then, he'd never needed to come up with excuses to be in John's company; they were best friends, and best friends needed no excuse. Whereas he and Molly were…whatever they were. Something he'd yet to define, shying away at every attempt to do so.

Molly, it would appear, had seen through him and was no longer willing to put up with his indecisiveness. She sighed and closed her eyes before snapping them open and zeroing in on his. "Sherlock, this has to end. One way or another, it has to end. I can't do this anymore. Either we have something between us or we don't. If we don't – if we're nothing but friends and never will be – I need you to be honest about it and just tell me."

"And if there's the possibility that we…might be more than just friends?" Sherlock found himself asking, shocked as the words made their hesitant way out of his mouth. He'd intended on saying nothing, on letting Molly speak until she was finished, but apparently his brain wasn't listening to him today. Interesting, and just the tiniest bit frightening.

Very much like Molly Hooper, come to think of it. Who had stepped forward, uncrossing her arms and resting her hands on his shoulders as she came to a stop between his legs, which he'd automatically widened to accommodate her. "Then if that possibility exists," she said softly, reaching up to run the fingers of one hand through his disordered curls, brushing them from his forehead in a motion he very much enjoyed, "you need to marry me."

He raised an eyebrow at that bald statement, eliciting a tiny giggle from her. "Yes, you heard me right. If there's something more between us, Sherlock, and it isn't just one-sided…"

"You told Lestrade you'd moved on, and you told me you were happy and I can assure you, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said as he finally moved, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer, "that if I'd known your feelings toward me had altered yet again…"

"They never altered in the first place, you git," she said with a sigh. "I was lying to you and I was lying to myself, but most of all I was lying to Tom and that's why I broke it off with him. And I was raised to let the man make the first move, but clearly that was never going to happen, so even though my mother would be mortified…" She moved her face closer to his, close enough that he felt her breath on his cheek as she continued to speak. "…I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I have almost since the first moment we met and I doubt if I'll ever stop. And if you feel the same way, then marry me."

"Name the time and the place, and I shall be there waiting for you," he murmured in response. Then, simply to make sure that her mother wouldn't be further mortified with her daughter's forward behavior, he drew Molly in for a sweet, lingering kiss to affirm his feelings for her.


	5. Blood Impact

_doctor-molly-hooper-holmes said: __Congratulations on 1000 followers! I was wondering if you would do a Victorian Sherlolly story? I love your writing!_

_OK, you said Victorian Vamplock was cool and M rating was cool, so here you go, enjoy! (This story was super close to being finished so I just powered through and finished it, and thanks to liathwen for reading it over for me!)_

* * *

"Please, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"No, Molly, I'm afraid I'm the one who's sorry."

Sherlock spoke with true regret as he advanced on the young housemaid whose curiosity – like that of so many others before her – had led her to uncover his secret. It was impossible to keep up the appearance of a humanity that had been stolen from him over a century ago without maintaining a household, which meant servants, which meant the chance of discovery, over and over again.

He truly was sorry that Molly Hooper had turned out to be one of the ones with such curiosity as to his own person, although he appreciated the bright clarity of her mind in general; had her life taken a different turn, she might have become another Marie Curie or Isabella Bird. As it was, she was an orphan who had been trained in nothing more mentally taxing than the proper running of a household and obedience, although the latter clearly hadn't taken as well as the nuns who'd raised her might have hoped.

She was pressed against the wall now as he loomed over her, fear in her eyes, regret in his own although, with her candle having guttered and spent itself in the breeze raised by the swiftness of his movements, she could not be expected to read his expression. He sincerely hoped she heard it in his words, although he judged her rising terror to eclipse any other emotion, and felt a twinge of guilt that he ruthlessly tamped down. For her own safety and peace of mind, he had to erase her memories of what she'd learned about him, and in order to do that, he had to pierce the sweet flesh of her virgin throat and take in enough of her blood to render her entirely biddable to his will.

His fangs slipped their sheathes before he'd mentally commanded them to do so, a lapse in control he hadn't had since he'd first been Made by his Vampire Mistress, the long-dead Lady Irene Adler, the Suffolk Vampire Queen. He blamed it on his distraction due to the regret and guilt he was feeling at having to steal Molly's memories and possibly ruin her life; she was young, a mere eighteen years, and far more intelligent than other girls of her station in life, a hard worker, pretty…

With a snarl of frustration he reached for her; since when did he allow sentiment to cloud the cold reason of his mind? She was all of those things, true, but at the moment he could only see her as a threat that needed to be eliminated. Not killed; he had neither the need nor the desire to kill her for either sustenance or to keep his secret safe, but her memories had to be altered, her will bent to his, and the longer he put off biting her, the more the scent of her fear grew, the harder the pounding of her heart, the more frantic the stream of unheard pleas pouring from her lips…

He grasped her chin with one hand, knowing she could feel the coolness of his flesh against hers, a coolness she'd already felt when she laid her trembling fingers against his throat and felt the absence of his pulse as he lay sleeping. Only the fact that she'd chosen to steal into his sleeping chamber as the sun's rays slipped beneath the horizon had alerted him to her uninvited presence; he'd heard her gasp of shock and dismay as her fears had been confirmed, and had arisen abruptly in order to prevent her from fleeing while still reeling from her newly-gained knowledge that her master was far more different to other men than she could have possibly imagined.

As he pulled aside her collar and exposed her throat, he murmured one last apology before lowering his head and sinking his fangs into her flesh.

In that moment, as the hot rush of her blood filled his mouth, his regret melted away at the divine taste of her. It was like no other blood he'd ingested, headier than the finest champagne. He groaned and held her to his body, feeling the burn of arousal coursing through his veins, stirring his prick, hardening it as her arms crept around his body and she cried out in pleasure.

Such a reaction was rare, so rare that he'd never encountered it in four hundred years of undead existence. He knew what it meant, however, and in spite of the euphoria sweeping through his mind and body, felt a twinge of fear as well.

After all, it wasn't every day a Vampire found the woman destined to become his mate.

**oOo**

Molly knew it was wrong of her to approach her employer's private chambers, the set of rooms she was forbidden to enter upon pain of being turned out without a reference, but her curiosity, always her weak point, had entirely consumed her. Curiosity, and a sort of compulsion she was powerless to resist.

Mr. Holmes' chamber was dark, too dark to see much even in the sullen glow of the small candle stub she carried, the only light she dared bring. Mr. Holmes, she'd been cautioned by both the Housekeeper Mrs. Hudson and the man himself, was a heavy sleeper and was never to be disturbed when in his private chambers. And when Molly's curiosity had gotten the better of her, she had counted on that first fact to protect her from his awakening to discover her within.

It was astonishing the lengths to which he'd gone to keep the sun's rays from entering the room; the windows were not only tightly shuttered but also covered with two layers of draperies, both made of some thick, dark material that fell from ceiling to floor and were held together with some sort of metal clasps. She gave herself a silent moment for her eyes to adjust a bit, enough that she could pick out the way to his old-fashioned, curtained bed. With shaking hands she pulled one of the thick velvet coverings aside, to find herself confronted with yet another layer of dark material. Why did he need so much protection from the daylight? She'd wondered that since first arriving in the household eighteen months ago, and now her employer's odd habits and eccentric hours had finally driven her to this invasion of his privacy.

If she were caught, he would be fully within his rights to turn her out with no reference and only the clothes on her back, but she couldn't stop herself even if she tried. She found the opening to the second layer of black material – canvas, it felt like to her fingers, so different than the rich velvet of the outer layer – and slowly, carefully pulled it back.

Mr. Holmes was lying in repose on top of the coverlets, fully clothed but for his shoes, waistcoat, cravat and jacket. What caught Molly's attention, however, was the stillness of his form; after a moment, she realized to her shock that he didn't appear to be breathing. Without thinking she reached out and pressed her fingers to the pulse that should have been beating strongly beneath his jaw…and felt nothing. Nothing but a coolness to his flesh that bespoke of death; she gave a soft cry of dismay, was about to call for Mrs. Hudson, when his eyes snapped open, blood red and luminescent in the darkness.

He moved with the speed of the wind, his hands holding tightly to her shoulders. Her candle guttered and spent itself, falling soundlessly to the heavily carpeted floor as her back hit the wall. She cried out and attempted to free herself, but his grip was strong, far stronger than any she'd ever felt upon her person; he was as immovable as stone, although his words sounded truly regretful when he told her that he was the one who was sorry as she tried to babble out an apology.

He seemed to be studying her in the darkness, although she couldn't be entirely certain, as her panic threatened to overwhelm her and the strange light in his eyes had dimmed. Then he was pulling at her collar, popping the buttons loose from the back of her dress, her apron sleeves falling from her shoulders as he exposed her throat and collarbone. She felt his head descending, and a dizzying wave of terror exploded over her as she felt his mouth on her throat, so cool against her warmth…then he was biting her, his teeth sinking into her flesh, and a rush of purest pleasure coursed over her, overwhelming the fear and bringing bliss in its wake.

She barely noticed when his arms encircled her petite form, or when her own arms reached out and pulled him closer to her, but she was fully aware when he pulled his mouth away from her throat and stared down at her, the sulphuric red glow having returned to the normally blue-green orbs. "Molly Hooper," he said, his voice wondering as he reached up to stroke her cheek in a tender caress. "You are truly a wonder."

She stared back up at him. "No, I'm a simple chambermaid," she blurted out, blushing at the sound of his rich, dark chuckle. Then she gasped as he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed he'd so precipitously vacated only moments earlier. She twined her arms round his neck and made no protest, knowing deep within her heart and soul that, no matter how wrong this was supposed to feel, all she wanted in this moment was for him to remove his clothing and her own, and allow her to explore that cool, pale form of his in deepest detail.

He'd not sought her permission to lift her in his arms, but surely he could tell that she would deny him nothing. Some part of her wondered if he were a sorcerer, if she had somehow fallen under a spell or been mesmerized, but the rest of her rejected such fancies. The man who was about to become her lover was indeed a creature out of myths and legends, she'd come to understand that even if she couldn't yet see the fangs that had pierced her flesh so sweetly, but her mind and thoughts still belonged to herself alone. She was a practical girl at heart; if tomorrow she saw with her own eyes that there were, indeed, fairies at the bottom of the garden, then she would believe in them. For now, all she knew was that Vampires were real and very, very much creatures of the flesh.

,

A flesh she dearly wished to explore. All she wanted right now was to join herself to him – Sherlock, she dared call him inside her own mind – and finally experience the pleasures to be had between a man and a woman.

"There is a choice to be made here, Molly." Sherlock's voice came from the darkness, close enough for her to hear the coolness of his breath against her ear. She nodded, knowing that he could see her in the darkness, and waited for him to continue. "Two paths for us to walk." She felt his long fingers trailing along her throat and up to her cheek, and shivered again at the touch. "One path leads us in separate directions; I will drink your blood and bid you forget everything you've learned today. I will send you to another household, where you will live your life as you have always envisioned it: a servant, perhaps one day wed to another, children, hard work, and eventually the grave."

"A-and the second choice, the second path?" she whispered, breathless with anticipation. For surely so joyless and mundane a future was not the better of the two!

"Stay with me," he breathed out, pressing a series of small kisses to her jawline. Molly's eyes fluttered shut, although of course it made no difference in the utter darkness of the room. "Become my bride, allow me to Make you into one of my kind, remain with me for eternity."

"Will our souls – my soul – be damned to Hell for this?"

Another one of his rich, dark chuckles from the darkness as his hands caressed her arms. "I've no idea. I can safely enter Hallowed Ground, and have attended Church faithfully at Mrs. Hudson's insistence, although more for the sake of her peace of mind than out of any true concern for my immortal soul," he added. Feeling Molly's start of surprise he said, "Oh, yes, my dear housekeeper is very much aware of my…situation. As is Dr. Watson. Both, however, have declined my offers to extend their lives, both claiming to be content with the normal mortal span of years." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was a deep thrum, almost more felt than heard as he said, "I dearly hope you are not of a like mind, Molly Hooper."

"Not at all, sir," she replied, screwing her courage to the sticking point and reaching out to lay her hands on his arms. "I am very much minded to take you up on your offer."

Although it appeared he had no need to breathe, she still heard him suck in his breath, and smiled to herself. Had she surprised him, then, with her rapid acquiescence? She'd certainly surprised herself; normally she was one to weigh her options, to think on a thing until she'd thoroughly examined it from every angle, but in this case she felt no such need. Only a pure rush of certainty that she was making the correct choice.

A slight breeze and movement of the mattress was all the hint she had that Mr. Holmes had removed himself from the bed; then she heard the rustling of the bed curtains being pulled back, and a noise a bit further away but similar in nature that told her he was opening the heavy draperies on the room's single window.

Although the sun had long since set below the horizon, there was still the faintest of light from the low-hanging moon and few early stars, illuminating the gloom and bringing the shadowy furnishings into sharper focus. The light was obscured for a moment by Mr. Holmes' tall form, and then he was next to her on the bed at a speed whose rapidity bespoke as much of eagerness as any supernatural influence. "What shall I do, sir?" she asked as he settled next to her again.

In answer he raised her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips of them before lowering her hands to his breast, guiding her to the buttons centered on his shirt. Understanding immediately what he was asking of her, she busied herself in undoing each and every one, then sliding her palms boldly across his bare chest once it was exposed. There was a light dusting of crisp, gingery hair between his dusky nipples, but otherwise his flesh was smooth, ghostly pale, cool to the touch but warming rapidly beneath her fingers.

Molly sighed happily as she undid the cuffs of his shirt. Here she was, with one of her fondest wishes about to be granted – and not just with any man, but with the one she'd half-fallen in love with almost as soon as she became part of his household.

**oOo**

He hadn't expected her to agree so readily to his request, if he were being entirely honest with himself. He had never considered himself a lovable man even in his mortal years, and to have found a woman who felt him worthy of her – a woman with whom he'd half-fallen in love from the first time he saw her peering interestedly into his microscope when she was supposed to be merely dusting his study…Fortune was indeed smiling on him today, and he no longer cursed the fact that Miss Molly Hooper had discovered his secret.

Before the night was over, he was resolved to begin the process to which she'd so readily – and with no reservations he could scent or hear or see – agreed. To finally have a companion by his side, someone to whom he could freely give of himself, mind, body and heart…it was a dream he'd long since given up on.

And now Molly was here to resurrect that dream. Her hands on his cool flesh felt positively feverish, and he could see the rosy glow of her skin as she flushed with arousal. Her clothing was considerably more complicated than his own to remove, but he made quick work of it nonetheless. She offered no resistance, no maidenly protestations, simply allowed him to remove the barrier between them, layer by layer, until all was revealed to his approving eyes.

"Mr. Holmes," Molly said as he raised his hands to caress her breasts. He paused, hands outstretched, then slowly lowered them as she bit her lip and showed signs of sudden distress.

"If you have changed your mind, Miss Hooper," he said, attempting cool indifference but feeling a surge of bitter disappointment at the thought, "then now is certainly the time to tell me, else I cannot say I would be fully in control of myself."

"Oh, no! I've not!" she hurried to reassure him, reaching out to clasp his hands in hers. "It's just that…I hope you won't be…disappointed. That I'm not…pure," she finished in a near whisper, a new blush staining her cheeks. One of embarrassment this time, rather than passion. "I've had a lover, a young man I thought to marry, only once I…let him…he left me."

She looked and sounded so disconsolate, so shamed, that he couldn't help but reach out to take her face tenderly in his hands, cradling it as he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Then he was a fool," he proclaimed. "And I think we both know that I am many things, but I am not a fool." He peered at her sharply, eyes flickering rapidly over her body, searching for signs… "Unless there is a child as a result of that union?"

A child would be a tie to her mortal life, even if it was being raised by a friend or even the nuns of the orphanage where Molly had spent the bulk of her young life. It would be difficult, for her to take on the mantle of immortality if she felt an emotional bond to a child, he'd seen that time and again.

But no. She was shaking her head, confirming what his eyes had already told him, that her body had never carried a baby within. "No, thank God," she said with fervent sincerity. "But…since you've raised the topic, sir…is that something we will ever be forced to confront ourselves?"

His opinion of her jumped to new heights as he realized, in her circumspect manner, that Molly was letting him know that she'd be perfectly happy if she never became a mother. Which suited him quite well, as he had never harbored any ambition toward becoming a father. "No," he replied. "I am incapable of fathering a child, and once I've made you like myself, there will be no possibility of you becoming pregnant."

Relief blossomed in her eyes, and she grinned widely as she threw herself into his arms. "Then please, sir, do make love to me!" she exclaimed.

It was with a great deal of enthusiasm that he responded to her request, pressing her back against the coverlet and bringing his lips to hers for a lingering kiss. There was no difficulty in coaxing her mouth open beneath his, although she gasped a bit as he slid his tongue between her lips. Her breathy moans as he gently guided her into a deeper, more intense kiss made him long for his own breathing days, for the chance to mingle their breaths together, but he banished such thoughts from his mind. He would not mourn what he no longer had, but would instead celebrate what he had this very night gained.

The touch of her little hand on his waist caught his attention; he pulled back from their kiss to see her eyes dancing with merriment, her bottom lip caught up between her teeth as she giggled. "You seemed to have vanished somewhere inside yourself, Mr. Holmes," Molly said, her fingers moving gently yet inexorably downward, drifting to the apex of his legs and torso and the turgid flesh resting there. "I do hope you don't find it too forward of me if I wish to draw your attention back to my simple self."

There was something in her teasing tone, a slight note that told him she was trying to hide her worries that she was not properly able to keep his attention; he set himself to removing that fear by covering as much of her sweet, warm body as he could in kisses and playful nips, being careful not to so much as prick her flesh with his fangs. Not until it was time for him to drink in her blood, for her to take in some of his own and begin the process of transforming her would he allow himself that luxury again. "My apologies, Miss Hooper," he said, being sure to lower his voice into a velvety purr. "And perhaps we could dispense with the formalities, under the circumstances? Do call me Sherlock, and I shall call you Molly. My Molly," he added in deepest satisfaction.

She hesitated a moment before speaking. "Sherlock," she replied, the sound of his name falling sweetly from her lips.

It was very difficult for him to keep from lunging at her throat, from beginning the process of transforming her before they'd taken their pleasure of one another, but held himself back. The pain of that transformation, he was determined, would be mitigated by memories of the pleasure he was determined to bestow upon her. He would permit himself the singular luxury of tasting her in a very different way, one he doubted her previous lover had attempted; the lout hardly seemed the type to concern himself with his partner's satisfaction, from what Molly had said of him so far. She seemed uncertain of his intentions as he moved sinuously down her unclothed form, sighing and shifting beneath his questing mouth until he gently inserted himself between her legs and bent his head to her sex.

**oOo**

Molly gasped as she felt Mr. Holmes' – Sherlock's – lush mouth press itself against her female center, his tongue delving between her folds to taste the growing moisture that had begun to seep from her body. She recognized the physical signs of her desire from her brief moments spent in her former fiancé's arms once he'd coaxed her into surrendering her innocence to him, but somehow she felt that Sherlock would bring far more enjoyment to her than Thomas ever had.

And so it was proven; within minutes Molly found herself gasping and writhing, feeling a coiling intensity growing deep within her belly, soon exploding outward to encompass her entire being. She flushed hot and then cold and then hot again, her heart racing deep within her chest, her breathing labored, and a high, thin wail tearing itself from her throat. She'd explored her own body a time or two when she was younger, attempting to see if the taboo actions might bring some relief after waking from dreams that left her confused and longing for something she'd never had, but the hesitant movements of her own fingers against her body had accomplished nothing compared to Sherlock's mouth.

She was still floating in the pleasurable daze he'd invoked when she felt him moving up to cover her form with his own, his lips nuzzling at her throat but not biting. "May I?" he murmured, sliding the tips of his fingers against the part of her body he'd just been tasting…fingers, and something much larger. She opened her legs and gasped out, "Oh, yes, please!" and gasped again as she felt him sliding himself within her body.

He encouraged her to move with him, grasping her left thigh with his hand, changing the angle of their bodies and deepening his thrusts. She was shocked to feel the rising tension in her body; surely it was impossible for a woman to feel so much pleasure at one time when giving herself over to a man! But no, Sherlock was no mere man; he was a Vampire, surely it was some side effect of his unnatural state that brought her such joy? The nuns had sternly spoken of a woman's duty to either give herself to God or to marry and bear children, neither of which had appealed to Molly. Marriage, perhaps, although Thomas' desertion of her had certainly soured her opinion of that supposedly exalted state. Sherlock had said nothing of marriage, but perhaps it wasn't something Vampires did?

Then he moved his hips with a slight rotation to them and the rising tension in her body tipped her over the edge once again, causing her to cry out his name in elation and wonder. With a growl he soon spilled himself inside her, body tautening and his fangs virtually erupting over his lower lip.

She sucked in a startled breath at the sight of them, white and pointed and tinged very lightly red from when he'd bitten her before; when he caught her looking at them, he lifted his lips in a deliberate smile, then moved downward and rested those wicked points against the rapidly beating pulse in the base of her throat. "Are you ready for me, my Molly?" he rasped.

"Yes," she choked out, hands gripping his shoulders in anticipation of pain. He looked so feral, so very dark and dangerous that she felt a moment's reservation; had she made the correct choice? Then his fangs had sunk themselves deep in her throat and there was pain but it was quickly overridden with pleasure and she knew that yes, she had, indeed, made the only choice she could have.

Whatever the future brought, she was at peace with that decision, and with the man – Vampire – she'd pledged that future to.


	6. The Proposal

**The Proposal, A Comedy In Three Acts**

_adi-who-is-also-mou said: __oooh ooh can i send a prompt? pleeease? -Sherlock proposes to Molly in the worst possible time (mid-coitus, while she's in the bathroom, while she's got her hands down some dead corpse's stomach...) bonus points if Molly's not that into marriage so soon after one broken engagement. 3_

_Mizjoely says: Two proposal stories in two days, both very different. This is rated T for implied sexytimes and I hope it gives everyone a chuckle. Thanks as always to everyone for reading, reviewing, favoriting, etc.!_

* * *

**The Proposal, Take One**

"Sherlock! I'm in the middle of an autopsy! And we've only been together for two weeks!"

"Yes, but we've known one another for nearly seven years. And we met when you were doing an autopsy, so this seemed like the perfect time!" A pause. "Not good?"

A disbelieving laugh and a wry shake of the head. "No, Sherlock, not good. Now go away and let me finish taking care of poor Mrs. Goldfinch!"

"It wasn't her heart, it was her…."

"Granddaughter, yes, I know, a bit too impatient for her inheritance. I found the point of entry for the needle behind the left ear, Sherlock, so you can tell Lestrade my findings will definitely show murder. But it's up to you to prove it was the granddaughter. Shoo!"

**The Proposal, Take Two**

"Still not good? Molly, how much more romantic a setting could you ask for?"

"Sherlock, we are in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by BEES!"

"Exactly!" A pause. "Not good?"

"NO!"

**The Proposal, Take Three**

"Honestly, Molly, if I didn't know any better I'd think you didn't actually want to get married!"

Silence.

"Molly? Is that it? You don't want to get married?"

A sigh. "Sherlock, first of all, I can't believe you woke me up from a sound sleep just to talk about this. Secondly, if you must know, no, I don't actually want to get married. We've been together less than a full month, and I've already been engaged once and it didn't work out…"

"Because you were with the wrong man."

Another sigh, heavier. "Yes, because I was with the wrong man. But now, I dunno, I just…I'm not ready for this yet, Sherlock. It's only been six months since I did break up with that wrong man. Can't you just give me a little time?"

A pause. "Well, I suppose I could, but considering that you're pregnant, I'm not sure how much more time you'd like to have before we…"

"I'm PREGNANT? What the heck are you talking about? I'M NOT PREGNANT!"

"Actually, you are, the signs are all there. You had the flu a month ago, if you recall, and were on antibiotics for ten days, during which time your birth control pills were rendered null. And although we did use a condom every time we had sex during that time, it's hardly the most efficient means of…"

Silence as two pairs of lips crash together. "Fine. I'm pregnant. And you want to make an honest woman of me because of that? Fine. Dandy. Super. Whatever you want, Sher…"

"I don't want to marry you just because of the baby, Molly. If you'll recall, my first proposal was before I could have possibly noticed any of the signs of your pregnancy. I want to marry you because I love you and you love me and the baby is simply…extra impetus for us to do what we already are inclined to…"

Two pairs of lips meet again, and silence reigns in the Hooper-Holmes bedroom, broken only by breathy moans and groans of pleasure as two bodies move together in sudden urgency.

The wedding takes place four days later. Molly still has her doubts, but Sherlock has none.

Sherlock, of course, is the one proven right in the end, as they remain married for the rest of their lives and produce two children, a boy and a girl, and proudly reign over six grandchildren in later years.


	7. Wedding Bell Blues

_cumbercookie81 said: __Congratulations! (throws confetti) You are absolutely amazing, I really enjoy your blog. Can you write me a prompt with a Sherlolly wedding and lots of trouble around? Thanks_

_mizjoely replies: Enjoy this bit of wandering craziness. It doesn't get to the actual wedding, but I certainly hope the wackiness ensues to everyone's liking on Molly's hen night! Rated T for implied sexytimes at the end and some questionable language and alcohol consumption!_

* * *

First it was the venue; a water main break meant a hasty relocation to the lovely gardens adjacent to Sherlock's family home, at the insistence of his parents. That was fine, really, as it turned out to solve the next problem, which was the flowers. The order, which had been on file with the florist for a good six months, mysteriously went missing three weeks before the wedding. But the wedding was in summer, outdoors, and the roses were in bloom so that, too, was fine. Molly was still able to get the bouquets and boutonnieres for herself, her two bridesmaids (her friend Meena and Mary Watson), Sherlock, Mycroft and John. Mrs. Holmes ("Call me Violet, dear, we're already family, the wedding is just a formality!") and Mrs. Hudson assured the nervous bride that they would take care of the rest.

All of that would have been fine. Even the fact that her wedding gown was somehow shortened to tea-length (just above Molly's ankles) rather than full-length by the final fitting wasn't actually a disaster, as it would make walking on the lawn much easier. And the bridesmaid and maid-of-honor dresses for Meena and Mary looked perfectly fine in teal rather than the lovely amber Molly had picked out.

But when the groom and best man were both called away to stop a kidnapping attempt on Prince George two days before the wedding, Molly decided it was time to give in and let fate have its way.

"It's doomed," she announced gloomily as she knocked back her third glass of wine and unsteadily surveyed the other women in the room. It wasn't a proper hen party, out at the bars raising a ruckus, but that had never been what she wanted and she was fine with it. Just as she was fine with the guests – Meena, Mary, Sally Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Ho—er, Violet, and Mycroft's PA Anthea. Or Andrea. Molly was never sure what her real name was, and she answered to both and never corrected anyone and…what had been her point? Oh yes. "The wedding. It's doomed. I'm going to message Sherlock and tell him it's off."

A chorus of protests met her words, and she ticked off the many signs the universe had clearly been chucking at her as evidence that she was making the right decision. "Besides," she concluded as she groped for the open bottle of wine on the low table her feet were propped up against, "we all know that there's no way Sherlock an' John make it back in time." Her eyes widened as her drunken synapses made what seemed to be the right connections, and she gasped. "I'll bet he did this on purpose! He keeps saying weddings are bollocks!" She appealed to Mary for back up. "Din't he say weddings're bollocks, Mare? Din' he? He said your wedding was bollocks, I know he did…not that you an' John shouldn't be married, of course, just that weddings were, you know…"

"Bollocks?" Mary supplied helpfully when Molly fell silent due to her inability to conjure up the correct word.

She nodded wildly, nearly slopping the wine out of her glass. "Yes! Bollocks, tha's what he says about weddings, and that means he doesn't wannna wedding. And the universe doesn't want us t'have one, either, or else my dress would be six inches longer!" She gave another nod, decisively, feeling she'd well made her point.

"My son is an idiot," Mrs. Holmes proclaimed, scowling at her mimosa before taking a hefty sip. "Both my sons're idiots," she added with a bit of a slur, this time scowling pointedly in Andrea/Anthea's direction. The younger woman simply raised an eyebrow and slipped her mobile into her pocket without saying anything…but her blank expression spoke volumes to Molly's wine-soaked brain. "Molly, luv, Sherlock may think weddings are bollocks, but he knows very well how successful marriages can be. As does Myc," she added, with another pointed look at Andrea. Anthea? Althea? "And I certainly din't – didn't – raise them to be such boors, I promise you that!"

Peering suspiciously into her glass, she declared, "Someone's put too much champagne in the mumoosas. Mimoosas. Mimosas!" she finished triumphantly. "Whoever it was…good show!"

"Hear, hear!" Mrs. Hudson cheered, raising her glass and clinking it against Violet's. Fortunately both were more than half-empty or they would have sloshed them all over one another's hands.

"I don't think Shel-_Sher_lock wants to marry me at all," Molly announced mournfully. The friendly chatter in the room immediately silenced as she looked at the gathered women. "I think he's just doing it cause he thinks that's what's expected of him. 'Shocietal norms'," she said in very poor attempt as mimicry.

"Now that's bollocks," announced Sally Donovan, her voice firm and entirely unslurred. She'd already proven she could hold her liquor better than anyone currently in the room, and Molly watched enviously as she rose from her seat and crossed the room without so much as wavering before plunking herself down on the sofa, shoving herself between Molly and Meena, who was making consoling "there, there" noises and being of absolutely no use. "Look, Molly, you know Sherlock and I don't always get on…"

"Understatement of the century," Mary snorted, then hushed as Sally glared at her before turning her attention back to the morose bride-to-be.

"We don't always get on, but we've made our peace with one another and one thing he and I both absolutely agree on, Molly Hooper, is that you are the best thing that ever happened to him. He tried to feed me some bullshit about John but let's be honest; he has no interest in shagging John, and he's needed a good shag for years now, and now that he's getting it on the regular he's actually turned into a decent human being. Most of the time. Well, sometimes. Occasionally…what was I saying?"

"You're pissed!" Molly blurted out in shock. She'd never seen Sally Donovan get pissed, and certainly not on anything as pedestrian as wine!

"Am not!" Sally shot back, looking offended. "I just…I'm not very good at this sort of thing, is all. What I meant was that he loves you, which I never thought he was capable of – sorry, Mrs. Holmes…"

Violet waved her hand. "No offense taken, my dear. My boys can be very…erm, difficult…at times. And no one knows that better than me!"

Sally nodded agreement, then patted Molly's hand clumsily. "So anyway, yeah, you're the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock, Molly, and he would be an idiot to not marry you even if the universe is sending omens. Which I don't think it is, personally. I don't believe in them. It's just a bunch of stupid coincidences, is all."

"Of course it is." Every woman in the room craned their head in the direction of door, from which Sherlock's signature baritone had originated. "Molly, the universe isn't trying to tell us we shouldn't get married, and even if I have said that weddings are bollocks…" He grimaced as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth… "You're certainly paraphrasing." He crossed the room and pulled his inebriated – and now freely crying – fiancée to her feet and from there into his arms.

"Continue your little soiree, ladies," he said crisply as he headed for the stairs. "I'm off to reassure Molly that no matter what happens between now and the day after tomorrow, I have no desire to live my life without her in it."

To the sound of cheers and whistles – and Molly's increased but now entirely happy sobbing – he and his pathologist vanished up the stairs.

"I think I'll just put on some music," Mary announced hurriedly as it dawned on her (she was a bit slow on the uptake due to her own alcoholic consumption) what Sherlock and Molly were most likely about to do. And as she and John (and Mrs. Hudson, who was looking a bit pale) well knew, neither Sherlock nor Molly seemed to understand the concept of subtlety when it came to certain activities.

And really, there was no need for Mrs. Holmes to ever have to live with the memory of her future daughter-in-law screaming out Sherlock's name in ecstasy as he shouted out, erm, _personal instructions_.


	8. Brotherly Advice

_rooroomc on tumblr said: __Sherlolly (no higher than T, please!) where Sherlock has to explain to Mycroft his recent engagement to the pathologist in question._

* * *

Mycroft knew they were living together, of course; Mycroft tended to know most important details regarding his brother's life. However, he had no idea things had progressed so rapidly..and in so disappointingly mundane a direction. Some days he truly understood James Moriarty's frustration with Sherlock, those times when he would do something so utterly boring and banal.

Such as falling in love. True, if Sherlock was to fall in love with anyone, Molly Hooper was probably the logical choice. Not just because she was a constant in his brother's life with surprising steel in her spine and a steadiness of character that helped her both in the morgue and in life in general. Not just because the two of them were somewhat compatible when it came to solving crimes and performing experiments. And certainly not just because she was and apparently always would be in love with Sherlock no matter what other emotional entanglements she allowed herself.

Simply put, it was all of those things together, along with what Mycroft gathered others would consider her friendly personality and self-deprecating sense of humor and her prettiness. An attractive enough package, he supposed, and certainly one that seemed tailor-made to appeal to his brother, but still, a disappointment. Sentiment was tripe and caring wasn't an advantage and when would Sherlock realize the truth of those words?

Not, it would seem, today. Mycroft listened, utterly flabbergasted, as Sherlock calmly announced his engagement – _engagement!_ – to Molly Hooper.

When Sherlock finished speaking, he leaned back in his chair. Mycroft studied his younger brother as intensely as he was being studied in return, and slowly raised an eyebrow. "Engaged. To be married. You." He put as much polite disbelief into that last word as he could manage – and years of experience had honed his 'polite disbelief' voice into a weapon capable of felling a man at fifty paces, as his PA had once expressed it. A tad melodramatic, but he found a quiet pride in the aptness of the description nonetheless.

"Yes, brother dear, engaged. To be married. _Me_," Sherlock replied, his own weight of sarcasm nearly as deadly. And his own eyebrow equally raised. "To Molly Hooper, in case you wished to express polite disbelief over my choice of life companion as well."

Ah, that deadliness wasn't merely metaphorical; Mycroft knew he needed to tread very, very carefully from this point on, else risk alienating his little brother permanently. And over Molly Hooper, an ordinary woman with a few trifling qualities that some might consider – and Sherlock clearly did – a step above ordinary. It still mystified Mycroft as to why those qualities so enthralled his brother, but it would be best not to phrase that particular question aloud.

Instead, he simply asked, "Sherlock, haven't I told you before that caring is not an advantage?"

"Yes, but what you neglected to remember is that loving most definitely is. What's more, it's an advantage I've long been missing in my life," Sherlock replied instantly. "For most of my life I've attempted to emulate your ability to distance yourself from the hordes of humanity, and for most of my life I needed to do that," he continued, leaning forward in his seat and gazing at Mycroft with an intensity that spoke of his absolute belief in his own words. "It helped, when I realized how very different you and I were from just about everyone else. It helped when I could barely stand to be within my own mind – well, that and the drugs," he added with a shrug. "Then the work came along and I thought that, combined with pretending – yes, _pretending_ – to myself and everyone else that I was a sociopath would be enough. But then John Watson came along and made me realize just how…lonely…I was."

"Yes, and then you discovered friendship, and now you think you've discovered love," Mycroft interjected, unable to remain silent in the face of such distasteful amounts of emotion being waved under his nose. By Sherlock, of all people, who really should know better! "But think about this before you make any sort of permanent commitment to this woman, Sherlock; how long before you grow bored with the experiment of domesticity? Is that fair to Miss Hooper?

Sherlock did something that actually dumfounded his brother; instead of going on the attack, he relaxed, leaned back in his chair, threw back his head and laughed. Laughed! As if Mycroft had told the most humorous joke ever!

Offended and fuming, Mycroft waited for his brother's sudden attack of hilarity to pass, then waited for the inevitable explanation. Which, for once, he refused to deduce, dreading the answer.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said when the laughter finally trailed off, "I haven't grown bored with Molly Hooper in seven years. What makes you think marrying her will bring an end to that incredible streak? _Seven years_, Mycroft," he reiterated. "That's how long I've known her and that's how long she's been defying my expectations. And once we have children…"

"Children?" Mycroft was actually shocked by how easily his brother spoke of such a thing, the one thing he thought they'd both absolutely agreed upon. "You intend to have…children? As in more than one child?"

Sherlock nodded, a smirk on his lips as he crossed his legs and leaned his head on one fisted hand. "Yes, children. At least two, possibly three. And they'll be brilliant, I've no doubt about that. Once a child enters the equation, the chances of boredom become close to nil, in my estimation."

"Children," Mycroft repeated faintly, still attempting to wrap his head around the concept of his baby brother as a father. "You'll…you'll have to give up the flat," he said, grasping at the first straw that came to mind. He resented being put on the back foot like this, resented it savagely, but could tell that Sherlock was actively enjoying his discomfiture.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll keep it for cases and move to the country. Buy a place in Sussex and keep bees. You know I've always been interested in bees," he added with another smirk.

Mycroft slowly shook his head. This conversation hadn't gone nearly as well as he'd hoped it would when he'd come to Sherlock's flat in response to his brother's unprecedented summons. He'd expected to be told that another nemesis had resurfaced, a request for protection for Molly and the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson, but this…! He had no words. None. He silently rose to his feet, gathered up his umbrella, and headed for the door. He could practically feel his brothers combined amusement and disappointment rolling off him in waves, but felt unequal to the task of offering congratulations on what he viewed as a disaster in the making.

He stopped in front of the door, however, as he pictured his mother's disappointment in him at his behavior. How disappointed she would be…and that, he found, he could not stomach. He turned and thrust his hand in Sherlock's direction. "I wish you the best of luck," he managed with a small, tight smile.

Once again his brother surprised and disconcerted him, by lunging to his feet and pulling Mycroft into a close hug. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said, then released his startled sibling, whose own arms had automatically curled up and around Sherlock's shoulders in an awkward embrace.

"I hope you find your own goldfish one day," Sherlock called after him as he exited the flat. "It's amazing how interesting they can be when you choose to study them a bit closer."

Mycroft paused at the top of the stairs, turned, gave a half-nod, then continued on his way.

Sherlock had certainly given him a great deal to think about today.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for following, favoriting, reading and reviewing these prompt fics. I hope you liked this one as well._


	9. The Big Idea

**The Big Idea**

_hooksandneedles-mag submitted: __okie dokie, I have a prompt. Teen!lock, John and Mary try to set them up on a date, pure fluffiness, the rest is up to you, maybe more plot *shrugs* _

_OK, so this is entirely from John Watson's POV and has quite a bit of Warstan in it, but I hope you like it! Warnings for mentions of teenaged sex (Warstan)._

* * *

"Mary, this is the stupidest idea ever."

"No it's not, John, it's brilliant and you know it. You're just mad you didn't think of it first."

John Watson rolled his eyes and raked his fingers through his blonde hair as best he could considering he wore it militarily short in defiance of current fashion. "No, Mary," he said patiently. "I'm not mad I didn't think of it first, cos I never would've thought of it at all! Setting Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper up on a date? But not letting either of them know it's a date? Really? How is that even remotely brilliant?"

"Because then they won't be nervous about it," his girlfriend of six months replied, blue eyes sparkling with mirth. "And don't tell me Sherlock wouldn't be nervous, because we both know you'd be fibbing," she added with another grin.

John, who had opened his mouth to voice just that objection, closed it in defeat. Mary was the sweetest, cutest girl he'd ever known and certainly the best thing that had ever happened to him in his seventeen years, but she was also really good at telling when people were lying…and very, very stubborn when she wanted something. And she wanted Sherlock and Molly to be together very, very badly.

To be honest, so did he. Sherlock was the most socially awkward person John had ever met…at least, he'd thought so until he met Molly Hooper. People called her Morbid Molly because she'd already decided she wanted to be a pathologist and talked enthusiastically about autopsies her father the doctor let her watch. And it did make John a bit queasy to watch how gleefully she cut into the frogs and rats they were given to dissect in biology…but he'd also caught Sherlock watching her with a great deal of admiration as she did so, wielding his own scalpel with quiet precision where she dug into the tiny corpses with enthusiasm and gusto.

And Molly watched Sherlock with equal admiration in chemistry class, where she and Mary were partners. The two of them had the 'peeking when the other isn't looking' down pat, but neither one seemed to be willing to take a chance on doing more than peeking. John thought he should just tell Sherlock that Molly fancied him, but Mary objected, once again citing their friend's nervousness – and Molly's shyness – as barriers that would never allow the two of them to act on their obvious feelings.

Yeah, John concluded gloomily, Mary was probably right. Tricking the two of them into going on a date was probably the only way either one of them would even think about making a move on the other. But they'd be happier once they were together, that much he was sure of, and so he reluctantly agreed to help Mary with her scheme.

**oOo**

"Come on, Sherlock, it's important. It's my and Mary's six-month anniversary, people celebrate things like that all the time. And she wants us all to go out to dinner, and you're the only one that can get us a reservation and you know it. The owner still owes you for that favor you did him when you told him about his chef and the – "

"Yes, John, I'm aware of how I helped him," Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Why can't you just take Mary to the chip shop where we helped the owner put up the shelves instead? We won't need reservations or to get dressed up, and he'll give you extra portions of chips, he'll remember you even if Henri at La Scallops won't."

"It's L'Escallope," John muttered. "And Mary wants to go _there_, not to a chip shop we can go to any old time. To L'Escallope," he added for good measure, knowing it was pointless to correct his friend. Sherlock had an amazing memory, but when it came to things he didn't want to remember, he willfully deleted them from his mind. Or mangled them. He still wouldn't call Greg Lestrade by his proper name, and all because the older boy had asked Molly out on a date once. At least, that was the reason John suspected, even if Sherlock refused to admit it.

For Sherlock's sake, John was glad that Mary had been informed by Molly that the date had ended with the two of them deciding it would be better if they were just friends…and now Greg was dating Sally Donovan, who'd broken up with Phil Anderson a few weeks ago when she caught him cheating, and…

John rubbed a hand over his face; Mary was right, he was a terrible gossip. At least he was keeping it all inside his own head instead of saying anything aloud. Sherlock would sneer and this conversation would go utterly to shit.

Not that it wasn't headed that way already; Sherlock looked ready to stubbornly continue to refuse to help or to participate, when John remembered what Mary had so very carefully coached him to say for just such an eventuality. "Well, Molly will be disappointed," he said, keeping his voice as casual as possible and shrugging his shoulders. He started to turn away as if in defeat when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"Molly? Molly Hooper is going?"

John nodded without turning around, in order to hide his satisfied grin. "Yeah, she's Mary's best friend so she wants her there as well. I know she's said she's always wanted to go there, but I guess it'll have to wait until another guy asks her or something."

"I'll fix it. Tomorrow night, you said? No problem," Sherlock said, the words spilling out of him rapidly. John risked a look, saw that the other boy had pulled out his mobile and was texting rapidly while he mumbled to himself under his breath.

"Thanks, mate," John said, not bothering to wait for an acknowledgement as he hurried off to let Mary know that part one of her plan had worked.

He only hoped part two would go as smoothly.

**oOo**

OK. Part two was in place: Mary was sitting at the white-cloth covered table, sipping a glass of water. She looked good enough to eat, in a gorgeous blue dress that matched her equally gorgeous eyes. She'd done up her shoulder-length hair in an elegant twisty-thing at the back of her neck, and her neckline was just the right amount of plungy to show off her, uh, blue-and-red beaded necklace, that was what he was looking at, of course it was…

"Nervous, John? Don't want Mary to know you've been staring at her? I don't see why not, you've been dating for six months and she must know by now how much you like looking at her ti…"

"Sherlock!" John hissed and turned to face his friend, who'd snuck up behind him. Bastard. He felt his face flushing with a combination of fury and embarrassment at having been caught ogling Mary like some creeper. "Shut up, will you? I was just…admiring her dress," he finished lamely, knowing it was pointless but unable to keep from trying to salvage his pride.

Sherlock's smirk spoke volumes, even before he opened his mouth to say, "Oh yes, her _dress_, of course. Stupid of me to think otherwise." Without pausing for breath or in any way indicating a change of subject he continued, "Molly's late. You told her 7:30, didn't you? Why isn't she here yet? Did you get the time wrong, John?"

_Oho!_ John thought gleefully. Mary was not just right, she was completely, utterly, _stupendously_ right! Sherlock liked Molly as more than a friend. So Mary's 'stupid' idea was just as brilliant as she'd insisted…and John couldn't wait to show his appreciation for his girlfriend's brilliance a bit later in the evening, when the two of them snuck off for their real anniversary celebration. A very, very private celebration that would involve him finally getting to use the condoms he'd filched from his dad's dresser a few weeks back. Or so Mary had hinted during their last heavy-duty snogging session…

"Hi, sorry I'm late!" Molly's cheerful voice brought him back to the present, and he turned to greet her while Sherlock just stood there and…stared. John sneaked a peek at his best mate; yup, he was staring all right.

Not that John could blame him; normally Molly wore oversized cardigans over bright, cheerfully patterned blouses, blue jeans, and sneakers. Not tonight, not for L'Escallope. No, tonight, like Mary, Molly Hooper was wearing a gorgeous, form-fitting dress, although hers was some vaguely peach shade and the neckline was much more modest – boatneck, was it called? Sweetheart? Something John couldn't for the life of him remember. She was also wearing a pair of strappy black open-toed sandals with heels that brought her height up at least a couple of inches and did fantastic things to her legs.

Molly's eager smile faded as he and Sherlock continued to stare at her, until she self-consciously smoothed down imaginary wrinkles in her skirt and ducked her head so that her thick brown hair – freed from its habitual pony-tail – fell forward and hid her face. "Mary said I should wear it," she mumbled. "I know it's not very…"

"It's amazing, it's lovely, you're lovely," Sherlock interrupted, babbling out additional compliments while John turned his stare on his tall, lanky and decidedly unnerved friend. "John, tell Molly she's lovely, she won't believe me, she knows I'm rubbish at compliments, never get them to come out right but you're good at it, you've had loads of practice…"

"Sherlock's right, Molly, you look lovely," John cut in before Sherlock could trip himself up any further. He smiled reassuringly as she peeked out from behind her hair, her cheeks a becoming pink but her forehead wrinkled anxiously. "We just were being idiots, yeah? Don't mind us, let's go join Mary, she's waiting at the table." He jutted out his arm, crooking his elbow; giggling, Molly tossed her hair over her shoulder and slipped her arm through his so he could escort her to the table. Sherlock followed, and John could feel his friend's scowl burning into the back of his neck with every step.

Mary smiled brightly as the three of them joined her, scooting her seat over a bit to make room. There was a small, silent tussle as John attempted to pull Molly's chair out and Sherlock attempted to do the same; John quickly got out of the way as Mary tugged impatiently at his arm, leaving Sherlock to triumphantly assist Molly to her seat.

The waiter appeared within thirty seconds, deftly handing the menus around and murmuring something about wine choices. Sherlock waved him away with another scowl. "Henri knows we're here," he said in his snottiest voice. "There should already be a bottle of champagne chilling for us. Under the name of 'Holmes'," he added, looking down his nose at that nonplussed waiter.

"You didn't have to be so horrible to him," Mary said with a frown.

"Yes I did," Sherlock announced. "He was going to take the champagne home and palm some cheap cut-rate crap on us because we're just _kids_," he sneered.

"Come on, Sherlock, he was just…"

"His handkerchief was damp," Sherlock said, talking rapidly over John's attempt to steer the conversation in a different direction. "All the other tables in his area have been served, and none of them with anything chilled that would require being wiped off. This table was reserved and Henri would have told the waiter about the champagne, so his attempt to deflect us with the wine list was deliberate. And he's stealing from the till as well; I'll have to be sure and inform Henri his manager isn't getting at better at vetting new employees."

John huffed in annoyance; it figured Sherlock would find something awful to deduce to spoil the evening. Then he felt Mary nudging his leg under the table, and looked up to see that Molly was staring worshipfully at Sherlock. "That was brilliant," she breathed, then looked over at John. "Is this how it is with you two all the time? When he takes you on cases?"

Sherlock was preening under her obvious adoration, and launched into a description of the way he'd assisted Henri, the owner, with the Case of the Shifty Chef, as John had named it in his blog. Molly listened, her eyes practically glowing, and Mary slipped out of her chair with a murmured excuse me and a request for John to assist her with something she'd forgotten in her car.

Neither Molly nor Sherlock did more than nod in identical distracted manners as John and Mary strolled away from the table, Mary stifling her giggles until they reached the door and slipped outside. "Oh, that's done it; Molly loves reading about your adventures and hearing Sherlock tell her about them is just perfect!" she crowed, flinging her arms around John's neck and kissing him enthusiastically.

He kissed her back just as enthusiastically, their friends quickly forgotten in his enjoyment of the moment. The sound of someone loudly – and disapprovingly – clearing their throat brought the moment to an end, and the two of them hurried over to Mary's car. "So what's next for this grand plan of yours?" John asked, leaning against the door. "I assume you just wanted to give them a few minutes alone…"

"Nope," Mary replied with a wide grin. "We're leaving. Hop in, Johnny boy; my parents have gone to Scotland for the week-end and you and I are going to have some long overdue alone time." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and John's heart started hammering in his chest and his trousers suddenly felt way too tight.

"Uh, but what about my car?" he asked, looking down the row of vehicles for his – well, his sister Harriet's – blue Mitsubishi.

"Sherlock filched your keys, didn't you notice?" Mary asked. John grabbed his pocket; sure enough, no keys. "And Molly was dropped off by her father. Sherlock will offer her a ride home, and it'll only take him about I'd say five seconds for him to deduce the real reason we left the two of them alone. So," she continued as she slid behind the wheel and John took the front passenger seat, "I'd say it'll take him about another five minutes after that deduction for him to text you and tell you what a prat you are."

"For leaving him to pay the bill?" John guessed.

"No, silly, there won't be any bill, you know that!" Mary exclaimed with a laugh as she put her Mini into reverse and smoothly exited the parking space. "This whole meal is comped. No, he'll tell you you're a prat for not warning him about my plans, of course!"

Before she began driving out of the parking lot, John pulled Mary close for a quick kiss. "You're brilliant," he pronounced as he settled back in his seat. "And if he doesn't thank you for all this, then I'll be sure to pound some sense into him."

The next day, morning, as John cuddled with Mary and marveled over the glorious night they'd spent together, he heard her mobile signal an incoming text. Mary groped for her phone and flopped onto her back to read it. She laughed out loud, then handed it John when he gave her an inquiring look.

_The date went well. You win; I like Molly and she likes me. We're going to the science museum next weekend. SH_

A few seconds later John's mobile chimed, and he read Sherlock's second message with a red face. He tried to hide it from Mary, but she laughingly grabbed it out his hand and gleefully read aloud: "Hope you didn't forget the condoms. Or where the clitoris is located, or else Mary is probably very disappointed right now."

When Mary surrendered the phone to him, John typed in a rather earthy response while Mary read over his shoulder, still laughing. Then he tossed the phone onto the nightstand and took her into his arms, holding her tightly as he rather anxiously asked, "It was all right, wasn't it, Mary?"

She kissed him, hard. "More than all right, sweetie," she reassured him when the kiss ended. "You can reassure your git of a best friend that you know exactly how to make a girl happy." With a devilish grin, she added, "Next time you see him, maybe you should offer him a few pointers, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely!" John enthused. Then Mary kissed him again and he happily forgot all about Sherlock bloody Holmes and his snarky sense of humor.


	10. Here's To You, Don Ho

_Broomclosetkink said: Heatwave drives Sherlock to the morgue to cool off, he and Molly end up snarking at each other which becomes a fight and then surprise! Angry sex! _

_A/N: Here it is, as requested. Warnings for, well, sex, and a really bad pun at the end. I couldn't not use it once it lodged itself in my brain. Enjoy!_

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It was too fucking hot. All of London, all of Great Britain, all of the UK – too. Fucking. HOT. Too hot at Baker Street, too hot at John and Mary's house in the suburbs, too hot at NSY, too hot in his Mind Palace, too hot _everywhere_.

Normally Sherlock Holmes took the weather in stride, but not today. Not when the temperature was soaring well above 37C, and the sun was beating relentlessly down and there weren't any cases worth exerting himself for. Well, there was the one his brother had offered up in that smarmy way he had, something to do with salmon smugglers in Alaska, but even the temptation of cold weather wasn't enough for Sherlock to bestir himself on his brother's behalf. Certainly not when it involved a trip to America!

And so one very hot, very sweaty, _very_ disgruntled Consulting Detective found himself standing outside the doors of St. Bart's Hospital, a place he had been avoiding for several weeks now.

And all because of one little Specialist Registrar for whom he had some very, very confusing feelings.

_Fuck it_, he thought rebelliously as he marched through the front doors and down the hall that led to the lift he needed to take to get to the morgue. _Even if she's still mad at me for using Mary as bait to bring down that Moriarty imposter, she can't forbid me from the morgue. I have special dispensation to be there and she knows it._

He couldn't help but notice, however, the way his steps slowed the closer he got to his destination. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to just show up like this, with his once-crisp aubergine shirt sticking to his body and his curls damp and sweaty, his feet burning in his shoes and socks…he made a slight detour into the men's changing room, grabbed the first clean shirt he saw, dumped his own shirt into a hamper labeled 'Scrubs Only' and toed off his shoes, wrinkling his nose at the rather ripe odor that wafted upwards as he did so. His eyes scanned the room quickly, summing up the evidence he needed to assure him he would be uninterrupted for at least a half-hour unless some idiot allowed himself to be vomited on by a patient. Then he finished shucking off the remainder of his clothes and jumped into the shower for a cool, refreshing interlude under the spray.

When he finished he dried off with a towel, leaving it in a damp, careless heap on the tiled floor as he went in search of something to go with the colorful shirt he'd grabbed…ah, perfect, a pair of freshly-pressed khaki cargo shorts, a bit shorter on his lanky form than they were on the much shorter owner – another pathologist who wasn't actually on duty today but simply was in the habit of keeping fresh clothes on hand – but fitting quite comfortably around the waist.

He didn't bother looking for clean pants to go underneath as he wadded up the rest of his limp, sweaty clothes and emptied the pockets before tossing them into the 'Scrubs Only' hamper with his shirt. He simply pulled on the shorts, slid his feet back into his shoes _sans_ socks, and strolled down the corridor, feeling much refreshed and more than a little pleased with himself. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, ready to take on the world and whatever it could chuck at him. Even, he thought with a silent laugh, Molly Hooper.

As soon as he opened the door to the morgue, however, he realized his mistake. Molly was there by herself, yes. It was beautifully cool, even downright chilly, yes.

But if he'd thought she'd be glad to see him…no. Not in the least.

She was standing next to an autopsy table, although it was currently unoccupied by anything other than her elbows (now removed as she faced him with a frown) and a paperback novel. So, a slow day then, paperwork all caught up, the entire room scrubbed to within an inch of its proverbial life, even the floor sparkling clean. A _very_ slow day. Giving Molly nothing but loads of time to think about all the reasons she had for being mad at Sherlock Holmes.

And he'd unwittingly given her yet another, judging by the scowl marring her delicate features as she slowly, deliberately swept him from head to toe with her disapproving gaze. "Really, Sherlock? Stealing someone's clothes? Or are you going to try and tell me that's a _disguise_?"

He'd intended to be conciliatory, to perhaps offer up a vague apology or at least request a truce – it had been nearly a month, after all! – but her words quickly got his back up; he stiffened, folded his arms across his chest in deliberate mimicry of her own pose, and curled his lip in a manner she could never hope to duplicate, not even at her most angry. He was simply better equipped in that department, both in temperament and in relative lip-size. "Oh, and you're going to try and tell me those are _your_ own clothes?"

He mimicked her head-to-toe examination, taking in the pink ballet flats (very much in her style although she generally work darker colors to work), the just-above-knee-length skirt (flowery and flowy), and the fitted yellow sleeveless blouse (matching the yellow blooms in the skirt, just as her shoes matched the pink ones), only semi-covered by her unbuttoned white lab coat. Overall he approved; it matched both her personality (well, her usual sunny personality, not the sourpuss he was currently confronted with) and her body type.

He was not, of course, going to tell her that. "So, tell me, Molly, who dressed you today? One of your nieces?"

Oh, that shot hit home; her two nieces were both under the age of ten and once, a long while back (before he'd jumped from the roof of this very building), Sherlock had carelessly pointed out that both girls had better dress sense than their aunt. That particular comment (it was, in his mind, perfectly valid since it was nothing but the truth!) had earned him a week of hurt silence on Molly's part and a long, long, LONG lecture from John on the cab ride home after she banned him from the path lab.

If he wasn't careful, judging by the gathering storm clouds on Molly's expressive face, he was about to be banned again, if not slapped. No, she reserved physical contact for when he was being more than merely irksome – and he'd been very, very careful not to piss her off by taking drugs or faking engagements or allowing himself to be shot (although why that had angered her so much was still a mystery to him). How was he supposed to know that not telling Mary she was acting as a decoy would set Molly off? Honestly, the woman was beyond unpredictable, she was downright erratic, which meant it didn't matter how careful he was; she still might slap him…

Molly lurched forward, her face red, hands fisted at her side as she stomped up to him, stopping only inches away. He braced himself, but she attacked only with words this time. "Sherlock Holmes, any man dressed in that hideous monstrosity of a Hawaiian shirt – really, ukuleles and topless hula girls? – doesn't have a leg to stand on when complaining about how someone else dresses!"

"But I wasn't complaining," he snapped, being sure to curl his lip again in a sneer. "I was merely complimenting your nieces for finally dressing you proper—mmph!"

He was silenced by Molly's mouth on his. She'd raised herself on her tiptoes, fisted her hands in the colorful lapels of his (truly odious) 'borrowed' shirt, and was now kissing him furiously.

'Furiously' of course being the operative word. Molly was clearly still angry with him, just as he was still angry with her for being so blasted unreasonable. And adorable. And sexy…oh, wait, sexy? Was she…yes, he decided as his arms curled around her, one hand snaking up beneath her hair and tugging it loose from the elastic holding it up, she most certainly was. Sexy. Gorgeous. Delicious.

He realized he was mumbling those very words aloud as her mouth opened beneath his and her hands scrabbled beneath his (really, it was incredibly odious and needed to come off NOW) 'borrowed' shirt. Before he knew it his hands were just as busy as hers, tugging at her lab coat and undoing the buttons on her blouse while his mouth slipped down to her neck. Her mouth has slipped a bit as well, and judging by the enthusiasm with which she was sucking, he would have a large purple mark as a souvenir of this encounter to either show off or hide, depending on how things ended.

His shirt soon landed on the floor next to Molly's lab coat, leaving him clad only in shoes and shorts. Which left her wearing entirely too much, in his opinion. Once her shirt was unbuttoned and shoved back on her shoulders, he undid the front clasp of her (pink, lacy – and was that a kitten wearing a bow on it?!) bra and greedily sucked in each pink, swollen nipple in turn, cupping his hands around them and thumbing the wet nubs as he moved his mouth back and forth. She moaned, a breathy, wanton sound that went straight to his groin; if he hadn't already had an erection, that sound certainly would have done it.

Distractedly he realized he'd backed her up to the counter; grabbing her by the hips he hoisted her up and sat her on it, putting her at exactly the right height to spare his neck further strain, since her face was now just about in front of his own. And her groin was exactly aligned with his, even more convenient; he felt her hands working the zip and button to his purloined cargo shorts. Any second now she would discover his lack of pants, and be pleasantly surprised…oh, God, yes, there were her hands, cupping his balls, freeing his cock, running heated fingers along its even more heated length, one thumb caressing the pre-cum beading its tip…

He gave another groan and flipped her skirt up around her waist, managing to free her from her knickers as she helpfully wiggled her bum, never once letting go of his erection. Which approved – no, his erection couldn't 'approve' anything, HE approved, why was it so blasted hard to think right now?

Ah, that was why. He sighed as his fingers grazed the gathering moisture between her legs, and she let out a hiss, sinking her teeth deeper into his neck and her nails (one hand had apparently moved back up to his head, when had she…bollocks, who cared?) into his scalp. Her other hand continued to move over his ever-hardening erection until he couldn't take it anymore; he gave another growl of desire, pulled her knees apart, and bent down to lick and nip at her soft, pink pussy with its neatly trimmed rim of dark brown pubic hair…darker brown than the hair on her head; did his naughty Molly color her hair? Something to investigate in future. When he wasn't busy investigating her sweet, juicy little cunt…

Since when, he thought distractedly as he buried his tongue between her soft pink folds, did he do dirty talk? Even in his own mind – especially in his own mind! – he was usually much more precise, analytical…clinical, that was the word. Apparently sex with Molly brought out the filthy side of himself he hadn't realized existed. Would she appreciate hearing that side of him when his mouth wasn't occupied sucking her clit, or his tongue wasn't thrusting deep within her? Would she even be able to hear him over the sound of her own keening wails and moans?

She was on the verge of orgasm; he could feel, taste it, hear it in her panting breaths. But she'd started this fight, and there was no way she was getting off this easily. Mentally chortling at the cleverness of his pun (knowing she would roll her eyes if he voiced it aloud), Sherlock withdrew his mouth from her body and straightened up, looking down his nose at her. She looked entirely undone, with her hair disheveled and hanging over her shoulders, her blouse and bra open and sliding down her shoulders, her skirt bunched up around her waist. She was glaring at him; good. Wouldn't want her to think she had the upper hand, after all. "Why did you stop?" she demanded, pulling her hand away from his prick.

Hmm, perhaps he should have thought this through; he wasn't happy about that turn of events, not at all. Still, he knew he could get her to touch him again, press her entire soft, warm body against his, wrap her legs around his waist… "I want to fuck you, Molly," he said, grabbing her by the hips and yanking her against his body. Would she fight him, tell him no, turn him away?

"Then get on with it!" she growled, her hands once again on his cock, tugging and pushing impatiently as she lined him up with her opening. He let her do all the work, forcing himself to stand passively by, a bored expression on his face, pretending a coolness he absolutely did not feel. Nor was she fooled by it; her grin was dark, feral, as she cupped his balls and slid a finger back toward the crack of his ass, slicking it with her own juices first.

A strangled moan escaped his lips and his eyes snapped shut at the sensation of her finger teasing his entrance, the tip slipping in as she continued to work his cock with her other hand. If he wasn't careful he was going to come right there, without ever having made his way inside her, where he most wanted to be.

No, that wouldn't do. Not at all. Dropping all pretense at disinterest, he pulled her hands away, shoving them back and pressing his fingertips against her breast, forcing her to lean back. She got the idea right away, but she'd always been one of the clever ones; she supported herself on her hands and raised her legs, her thighs and knees warm against his hips and sides as he positioned himself, thrusting roughly into her body, sinking right to his balls without stopping. He grasped her hips and began to move, her every gasp and moan and strangled "Fuck, yes, Sherlock!" urging him on. She met him thrust for thrust, neither asking for nor offering anything soft or gentle, taking his urgency in stride and meeting it with her own.

She came quickly, practically sobbing out his name as she shook and shuddered against his body. He stilled himself until her breathing slowed to something approaching normal, then waited for her to open her tightly-shut eyes and meet his gaze. She nodded in response to his silent question, and her hands came to rest on his shoulders as he once again began moving, rutting deep into her, the feel of her slick muscles against his cock the most glorious thing he'd ever had the pleasure to feel.

He came with a low moan, his orgasm taking him completely by surprise; normally he had better control over himself, but it had been many years since he'd indulged…and never with a woman he had feelings for. "Crap," he said aloud, opening his eyes (of course they'd snapped shut at some time, it was almost physically impossible for him to keep them open when he was coming) and staring down at Molly in sudden realization.

He'd enjoyed having sex with her. He wanted to do it again. What was more, he didn't just want the sex, he wanted her, all of her. Waking up next to her, sharing meals and coffee, watching crap telly together curled up on their sofa…their sofa? Hell. Yes, their sofa, because he wanted her to move in with him. Right away. Today, if possible…

"It was loads better than 'crap',' Molly said with an angry frown. No, not angry…hurt.

"Not the sex," he rushed to explain as he gingerly pulled himself from her body. "The 'I've just had an epiphany and I'm not sure how I feel about it'…thing."

Molly pushed him aside and hopped down from the counter, appearing unconcerned with the semen now running down her legs as she headed for the sink. "What epiphany?" she asked, still not sounding entirely happy with him. Then again, she hadn't been happy with him when this whole thing started; he supposed even mind-blowing sex couldn't erase all the pain and anger she'd been harboring. Or the fear; her anger at him for getting shot suddenly made sense, a secondary epiphany crashing over him. "You were scared, when I got shot," he said wonderingly. "That's why you were so angry. You were scared I would die."

Molly rolled her eyes as she meticulously wiped herself clean with a handful of damp paper towels. "Took you this long to figure that out?" she snarked.

"Yes, well, to be fair I'm really not used to anyone besides my parents and maybe John feeling that strongly about me," he confessed as he reached down and pulled his borrowed shorts up, doing up the zip and button before padding over to join Molly at the sink. She offered him a cup of water; he downed it one gulp before setting it on the counter and pulling her into his arms. She fought him at first, just a little bit, before melting into his embrace and allowing him to kiss her. "Forgive me, Molly," he murmured against her cheek when the kiss ended. "I'm not good at this sort of thing. And Mary said it was all right, that she didn't mind being the decoy," he added hopefully.

Molly glowered at him, then shook her head and gave him a rueful smile. "You always did know how to work around me," she said, trailing her fingers up the side of his face and combing them through his sweat-matted curls. So much for the shower he'd taken; perhaps she could be coaxed into sharing another one with him? "So what now, Sherlock? Are we…something? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Friend with benefits?"

He scowled at her. "Where on Earth did you come up with those ridiculous terms? We're partners, just as we've always been," he said firmly.

"Partners who are just friends who happen to fuck each other or something more?" she pressed, and he realized how important it was for her to hear the words. For her to be allowed to say them to him as well, words she'd never spoken aloud because he'd been too much of an ass to be willing to hear them.

"Partners who live together, who will probably marry one another if that's something you feel strongly about. Partners," he added with another soft kiss, "who love one another. There, I said it. I love you, Molly Hooper, and I'm sorry it's taken me this long to sort myself out."

Her arms tightened around him; he returned the hug, resting his chin on her head as she pressed her cheek against his bare chest. It felt very pleasant, even with the dampness he could feel…oh, damn, why was she crying? "Why are you crying?" He demanded, moving his head away so he could peer down at her. "Is it because we didn't use a condom? I can assure you there's no need to worry about the transmission of STIs, and since you have a birth control implant we don't have to worry about the possibility of pregnancy either…"

She smacked him lightly on the chest and looked up at him, smiling through her tears. "No, you git, I'm crying because I'm happy!"

He shook his head. "That makes absolutely no sense," he pronounced, cradling her face in his hands and softly kissing the tears away. "Please tell me you won't be doing that very often in future."

"No promises," she replied, her grin turning decidedly cheeky as she kissed the tip of his right index finger and slipped out of his grasp. "I'm going to give Mike a ring and tell him I'm leaving early."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

The look Molly gave him was one he didn't need to wrack his brains over, since 'smoldering' was the very first word that sprang to mind. "So we can go back to yours and give Mrs. Hudson something to gossip about," she replied.

He grinned and looked round for his discarded shirt, shrugging into as Molly spoke to her supervisor. Oh, he approved, very much so; it would be interesting to compare their second act of copulation to the first, since clearly neither of them were angry any more. Would it be slow and languorous, or just as hard and furious as this one had been? Would Molly want to be on top? He rather liked that position, as it gave him an unobstructed view of his partner's breasts as they jiggled and bounced….

He discreetly adjusted himself; he was already half-hard again, and suddenly impatient to leave the coolness of St. Bart's air conditioned halls for the stifling warmth of Baker Street. Perhaps he'd have some fans installed, or offer to pay to have central air installed, surely Mrs. Hudson couldn't object to that…

"Right, that's sorted, and since it's such a slow day Mike isn't worried about me waiting for the next shift to come in." Molly grinned and took Sherlock's hand as she grabbed her crumpled lab coat from the floor and hung it over her arm. "So let's go back to yours and see what stamina records we can set."

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that it was unlikely that the two of them could do any such thing…but then again, perhaps she was merely talking personal best? Something to think about… "Why are you grinning?" he asked suspiciously as she gave him a smug look.

She shrugged and fingered the cheap fabric of his shirt. "Just thinking about how this – " she gave a light tug – "was the reason for us having sex."

When he raised an inquiring eyebrow, she added with a smirk, "After all, what's a Hawaiian shirt without a lei?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then grinned and put his arm around her shoulder, holding he close as his guffaws echoed down the corridor the entire way to the lift.


	11. Playing Dress Up

_pagedancer87 on tumblr said: __Sherlock has Molly try on a bunch of "disguises" for a case, when really he just wanted to see her in different costumes. Fetish/Roleplay smut?_

_A/N: So I played with the premise a bit and indulged one of my own, um, kinks, shall we say? Hope you like what I came up with! Hoory, I've now officially passed the halfway mark, 11 down only 9 to go! (Warnings for Smexytimes including use of handcuffs)_

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"Sherlock? Are you sure about this? I mean, really sure we have to do this?"

As Molly peeked out from the bedroom door, Sherlock turned to face her, and her breath caught at the sight of him. He was clad from head to foot in unrelieved, skin-tight black, with his hair slicked back and straightened. Not just straightened, but darkened as well, nearly black instead of his usual deep brown. He even held himself differently, and suddenly his assertion that they had been asked to infiltrate a science fiction convention in the United States had a lot more appeal than it had when he'd first told her about it.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy sci-fi, but she wasn't very keen on big crowds of people, and the convention Sherlock wanted to drag her to was one of the biggest in the UK. But he'd sulked and finally she'd given in, just like she always did – and then, after she'd agreed to help out (John would be away with Mary and baby Isabelle that weekend), he'd shown her the bedroom full of costumes to try on. She wasn't much for dress-up either, but if it was necessary for the case then she could hardly say no.

The first outfit he'd had her try on had been based on Star Wars, rather than Star Trek, and had been incredibly uncomfortable. Not just with the amount of skin Molly would have to show – she wasn't ashamed of her figure but she'd never been comfortable in bikinis – but because the top part of the 'Slave Leia' costume managed to both dig into her ribs and squish down her boobs. Yes, it looked fantastic, but there was no way she was skulking around a convention site feeling like she was being permanently pinched. When she'd explained her reason for vetoing, Sherlock had scrunched up his face and somewhat regretfully shoved aside the box containing his counterpart to that costume – Han Solo, complete with blaster, but had made no further protests once Molly showed him the angry red marks on her ribs.

But this outfit, the Star Trek one, it had possibilities. Yes, the skirt was short, but the boots were comfortable and the silky fabric of the blue dress was light as air against her skin, as were the matching knickers. Light and airy, yes, but not flimsy or cheap; clearly Sherlock had gone to a rather large expense to put this selection together for the two of them. Or else the costumer owed him a favor.

Not only did her costume have a great deal of appeal, but his, as she'd already noted, was an absolute delicious dream come true. A dark and scary dream, but a sexy one. She wondered if Sherlock knew what an effect he was having on her libido; not that he didn't turn her on just by being himself, but in this particular outfit and persona, he was like an irresistible force pulling her in.

She knew better; this was just a case to him, and they were just friends, but she couldn't help her mind from drifting down some dark and delightfully kinky alleys as she drank in the sight of him. Then he frowned, tugged on his shirt, and finally caught her eye…and from the sudden intensity of his gaze as he met hers, he knew exactly what had been going through her mind.

"Well," he said, his voice a low rumble as he took in her own costumed form with what looked very much like approval, "this is an unexpected benefit."

"Oh?" Molly asked, fully entering the room but not walking up to where he stood next to the bed. Heart beating madly in her chest, she breathed out, "How so?"

"Molly Hooper has a thing for costumes. But does she also have a thing for role play?" Sherlock asked as his eyes darkened, pupils blown back with what she dared identify as passion. Or at least lust, if it was just physical. It would be wrong, so very, very wrong to jump his bones, Molly counseled herself, especially if it turned out to be just a one-off. But the sight of the definite bulge forming in the front of those tight black trousers was very hard to ignore.

As was the sultry growl of his voice when he said, "Come here, Dr. Hooper. You can hardly perform my medical exam from across the room." Then he grinned, a slow, feral grin that turned her knees to water as he added, "After all, you mustn't keep the prisoner waiting." And God help her, he proceeded to produce a pair of handcuffs from behind his back – where they'd been attached to the waistband of his trousers, maybe? – and click them around his wrists with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact the entire time.

Dear. God. He'd seen the movie; he had to have, or at least some of the photos online, possibly to research for the convention? Whatever, no matter, certainly not important. Not when Sherlock was looking at her – finally! – the way she'd longed for him to do ever since that first meeting in the morgue seven years ago.

As if in a dream Molly felt herself moving forward, stopping directly in front of him, reaching up to press her hands against the firm, muscular chest his black shirt showed off to such perfection. Before Sherlock could do more than smirk at her, she shoved him, hard, pushing him off balance so that he fell back on the bed with a 'whoof!' of surprise. Then she climbed onto the bed as well, his thighs between her knees, leaning forward so that her hair fell over her shoulder as she rested her hands on either side of his head. "The prisoner needs to learn when not to mouth off to the Chief Medical Officer," she growled, lowering herself so that she was lightly grinding against that lovely bulge in his crotch.

"Duly noted," he breathed, lifting his cuffed hands and shifting his hips beneath hers, encouraging her to continue her movements as he cupped her breasts. Although she loved the way it felt to finally have him touching her in so intimate a fashion, there was a wild recklessness growing in her; if this was to be her only sexual encounter with Sherlock Holmes, she wasn't going to let a single fantasy go to waste. With that in mind, she grabbed his wrists and pushed his arms up, over his head, pressing them into the mattress as she leaned down and kissed him.

She'd imagined kissing Sherlock so many times, daydreams and sleeping dreams and idle fantasies, that she'd come to assume that if the real thing ever happened it couldn't possibly be as good as his kisses in her imagination. She had no idea what type of a kisser he'd be – a masher, a nibbler, sloppy, neat? – and even less of an idea as to his experience level when it came to sex.

She shouldn't have worried, was her first, rather delirious thought as their lips met and clung. He was a bit of a biter, nipping at her lower lip, dragging his teeth across the tender flesh as she opened her mouth in invitation. An invitation he took immediate advantage of, his tongue gliding between her lips and meeting hers in an urgent duel.

Kissing Sherlock fantasy; check.

She moved her lips away from his, panting for breath, eyes shut tight as she brought her mouth to the long, pale expanse of exposed throat and its enticing freckles and moles. She set her teeth lightly against his skin and felt a jolt go through her at the sound of him moaning. Sherlock Holmes was moaning, and Molly Hooper was the one to elicit that moan. Had she ever actually described herself as 'mousy'? If so, she was determined to be the mouse that roared…and the one who made Sherlock roar as well.

"Keep your hands above your head at all times during the medical exam," she whispered in his ear, curious to see how far he would let this go. Oh, they were going to have sex, there was no question about that, but how long would Mr. Control Freak let her call the shots?

"Very well, Doctor," Sherlock rumbled in response, shifting his hips a bit but keeping his expression cool and aloof. "Shall we begin?"

Oh, he'd _definitely_ seen the movie, if he was quoting from it! She would have to quiz him on his taste in films later. Much, much later, if she had her way.

Rising to her knees, she pulled her body away from his, staring down at him, taking in the sight of Sherlock Holmes lying with his hands stretched over his head, wrists cuffed, his black shirt riding up just the slightest bit and showing a pale swath of flesh just above the waistband of his trousers. She reached down, running her fingers lightly over his chest until she reached the button holding his trousers closed.

He sucked in his breath but made no other sound as she slowly undid the button, sliding her fingers down to the zip and pulling it down equally slowly. She maintained eye contact as she eased the fabric apart, somehow not in the least surprised to discover he wasn't wearing any pants beneath the tight trousers.

She tugged his cock free and looked down. Big, but not massive; purple shading to red, the base and his bollocks covered with a light dusting of gingery hair.

Seeing and touching Sherlock's cock fantasy; check.

Time for a fantasy that was a wee bit naughtier, Molly thought, easing her body down between Sherlock's legs. The sound he made when her lips touched the head of his cock was best described as a strangled gasp, and Molly's lips curved in a smile as she continued to bob on him, licking and sucking, holding the base in one hand, testing to see what he liked…and how long he could maintain control.

The answer, she was gratified to learn, was not very. "Molly, stop!" he gasped out. "Close, stop, please!"

There was a definite whimper in his voice on that last word, and she granted his request only because of that. Well, and because of course she wanted to tick off a few more fantasies.

Sucking Sherlock's cock fantasy; check. Time for the real thing.

"Condoms?" she asked as she slithered out of her knickers and undid the zip on her boots. She hadn't bothered with the black stockings that had been included in the box with the rest of the costume, not for this dry run, and was quite happy with that decision even though the boots had started rubbing blisters on the backs of her heels.

"Um, there might be some in the loo?"

Molly paused in the midst of tugging off her last boot. "'Might' be?" she repeated with an arched eyebrow. Honestly, she'd expected the answer to be 'no', but always kept one in the zipper pocket of her handbag, along with a tampon and other feminine necessities. "Leftover from John or – never mind," she added, realizing she didn't actually want to know. She'd already done enough to pull them out of their little role play, and now was certainly not the time to quiz Sherlock on his love life. Or was it? He knew hers in detail – well, not THAT much detail, of course, but she'd teased him a bit when she was still engaged, telling him she and Tom were having quite a lot of sex, and although she was pretty certain he hadn't actually shagged his fake fiancée seven times a night, surely if he had he'd have been careful…

"Molly!"

She startled and turned to face him, embarrassed that she'd gotten so caught up in what really was none of her business. "Sorry, just…I'll go check, no, I've got one in my handbag…I just usually always have one, not that I was expecting anything…"

Sherlock huffed and raised his head to glower at her. "Molly, I'm not accusing you of any sort of hidden agenda, nor am I admitting to having one myself. If there's a box in the loo, then yes, it's leftover from John, because I haven't had sex with anyone since…well, suffice to say, in many years. And if you have a condom in your handbag, it would never occur to me to question you as to why. Either way, I am quite eager for you to put one on me so we can commence shagging one another, as it is long overdue, wouldn't you say? And," he added while Molly gaped at him, still holding her boot loosely in one hand, "if there is only the one, then I shall have to run out after and purchase a new box. For next time."

"Next time," Molly repeated, feeling as if she'd been run over by a lorry. "You want…you mean there's going to be a…next time?"

Sherlock's answering smile was slow, smoldering, and full of promise. "Oh yes," he purred, drinking in her naked form, raking her with his gaze from head to foot. "Many, many more 'next times'. Like I said, this has been long overdue, and I intend to make up for lost time."

Molly finished removing her boots and retrieved her handbag in record time, not bothering to hunt in the loo for the box of condoms that might or might not be there; after, she resolved, she would look. And then send Sherlock out if it wasn't there, because he was absolutely right; this day had been a long time coming, and there was a great deal of lost time to make up for.

She did note, however, that Sherlock's arms never moved; he left them over his head, as she'd directed, even when they'd gotten sidetracked. Nor had his lovely erection waned; for someone who was always so bloody impatient, it seemed Sherlock Holmes could muster up the patience of a saint under the right circumstances.

Well, fair was fair; Molly had been more than patient with him over the years. Now that they'd reached a point she'd never thought he was interested in – but clearly was – it was time to stop thinking and start acting.

Time to fulfill the 'having sex with Sherlock' fantasy.

As she rolled the condom onto his cock, watching him shift and bite those gorgeous lips of his, squeezing his eyes shut and clearly holding in a groan, Molly felt an intense excitement. None of her previous lovers had ever affected her this way, and she knew it was simply because none of them had ever been Sherlock Holmes. Even if the sex turned out to be so-so (which seemed unlikely), he was still the man she'd wanted like no other in her life.

She clambered over him, not as gracefully as she would have liked, but not so clumsily as to knee him in the groin or anything. And when she sank down on him – lord knew she was wet enough to accept the lovely thick length of him! – she sighed and leaned down, resting her hands just above his shoulders and taking his mouth in a passionate kiss.

He responded instantly, kissing her back, nipping at her lower lip in that way she'd just discovered he had, moaning into her mouth and thrusting his hips up to meet her movements. His arms were shaking, and she decided it was time to let him touch her; she grasped his elbows and brought his arms forward and those big hands of his were covering her breasts as she gasped and shuddered at the additional sensation.

When he pinched her nipples, she keened loudly, her body jolting into orgasm as if he'd willed it into being. "Christ, Molly!" she heard him moan, and then his smooth rhythm fractured into a few stuttered thrusts, and he pushed himself deep inside her as she collapsed onto his chest, feeling his release as he pulsed into her.

Their racing heartbeats thundered as one in her ears; with shaking hands, she reached into each of his pockets, finding the key to the handcuffs in the left one. She steadied herself enough to release him, chafing his wrists until he caught her in his arms, rolling them onto their sides as he nuzzled her throat. He released her only long enough to take care of the condom, tying it off and disposing of it into the bin next to his bed.

After a few minutes spent curled around one another, slowly coming down from their mutual high, Sherlock spoke. "So, Molly, about this costume kink of yours…tell me, do you think you could indulge one of my particular fantasies next time?"

"Depends," she said with a grin, turning her face to his and dropping a kiss on his nose. "What is it?"

With a gleam in his eyes, he whispered his answer, and Molly's post-coital glow became a frenzy of kisses and embraces that ended only when Sherlock went to the loo to seek out additional condoms – luckily there was, indeed, a half-empty box in the cupboard.

And when he made it back to his bedroom, the darkening of his eyes as his pupils expanded told Molly that he hadn't been kidding when he said he'd often pictured her lounging on his bed, naked except for one article of his clothing.

The purple shirt of sex, as she'd privately dubbed it, turned out to be one dress-up kink they both shared.


	12. On The Road Again

_tiatess on tumblr said: __Aw, ok, Prompt! I'd love to read some traveling related sherlolly fic, wherein both sherlock and molly travel to consult on a case and wackiness ensues. (As much as that's an awful phrase, haha.) Pick a rating, whatever you're feeling!_

_So I'm not sure about the wackiness level, but I hope this satisfies! Rated T. 12 down, 8 to go!_

* * *

"I told you the tyre was going flat."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore his traveling companion's complacent 'I told you so' comment. She'd been complaining ever since their last stop that she thought the rear passenger-side tyre looked 'mooshy', chiding him for ignoring her and not looking at it, and now that she'd been proven right – and he was stuck trying to change a flat in the middle of nowhere with only a smug pathologist for assistance – she wouldn't shut up about it.

Then again, it was technically his fault. Not the flat, but for asking Molly to come with him on this case while John and Mary were busy with their newborn daughter.

Molly didn't normally annoy him; he quite enjoyed bringing her along on the occasional case, especially now that she'd gotten rid of her idiot fiancé. He still hadn't worked up the nerve to tell her _why_ he was pleased she'd gotten rid of Tim or Don or whatever the hell Meat Dagger's name had been, and had been hoping a few more cases together would give her a hint. Then she could ask him and he could answer her and it would save him having to figure out how to tell her that she was…

"A pain in the arse!" he blurted out as she smugly pointed out that he was trying to use the wrong part of the tyre iron to loosen the bolts. It was bad enough that she'd been right about the 'mooshy' tyre in the first place. Or that she'd been right when she corrected him on how to use the jack provided in the rental car.

Molly made a huff of annoyance at his outburst and crossed her arms over her chest. She was long days away from being skittish around him, from flinching at his bad tempers or running off in tears at some horrible thing he'd said…wait, no, strike that; Molly had never run off in tears from anything he'd said to her, no matter how horrible. She'd kept her feelings to herself in the beginning, but then she'd started calling him out on his insensitivity – starting with that one Christmas he would much rather forget yet could never quite eradicate from his Mind Palace.

That, he realized as he dropped the iron to the ground and rose to his feet, was when it had happened. Oh, before that he'd always trusted her, she'd always counted from the first day he met her even if it had taken him a few years to realize he'd never communicated that fact to her, but when she called him out on his mistaken, jealous (jealous? Yes, jealous) deductions of her that Christmas, that was when his feelings had irrevocably altered.

"I love you," he said, turning to face her. She stared at him in obvious shock, so he swiftly moved into her personal space and lightly grasped her upper arms. He gazed directly into her confused brown eyes, willing her to see and hear and feel his sincerity as he repeated his words. "I love you, Molly Hooper. I've loved you for such a long time now, but I was an idiot and shied away from it. Emotions are dangerous, sentiment is a chemical defect, I've always believed those words, but I know better now. I love you," he said for the third time. "And you need to know that. Even if it's too late for us to be anything more than friends…"

He was silenced by her lips softly meeting his, her arms encircling his shoulders as his automatically enfolded themselves around her slim waist. "I love you too, you daft man," Molly whispered when the kiss ended. "I always have and I always will."

"Good, that's good," Sherlock said with a sigh of relief. "So…what now?"

She pulled away just enough to look up at him, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes and a small smile gracing her delicate lips. "Well, right now you finish changing that tyre. Then we go on to Devonshire and wrap up this case – you said it was barely a five, so I'm confident you can take care of it today – and then we find a nice little inn with some shops nearby."

"Shops? For what?" Sherlock asked, for once not able to follow her train of thought.

Her grin deepened. "For the obvious, silly! I don't carry condoms around with me all the time, and I doubt you do either! And then we'll need toothbrushes and such since this wasn't meant to be an overnight stay, and I'll need to contact Mike and let him know I won't be in tomorrow…"

"For the rest of the week," Sherlock corrected her as he fished out his mobile and began texting furiously. "We might as well make this a proper sex hol—er, honeymoon," he corrected himself, giving her a guilty look. But she just laughed and shook her head.

"Call it what you like, Sherlock, but it's not a proper honeymoon until we get married."

"Oh, I'm having Mycroft take care of that for us," he replied absently as he finished sending the text. "I've instructed him to find us a minister so we can be married today, he'll fiddle the paperwork, then when you've moved into Baker Street we can talk about how many children we want – I would prefer to limit it to two, but I know you've always wanted at least three…"

This time he was silenced by an even more enthusiastic kiss as Molly pressed herself against him, squeezing him tight and smiling through sudden tears. Oh, damn, he'd broken his spotless record of not making Molly cry, and all because he'd been too impulsive… "We don't have to, it can wait until you're ready, the marriage and the moving in," he stammered out. "Just, please don't cry, Molly. Please." He wasn't even ashamed of the begging note in his voice, as long as the tears stopped falling.

"You daft man," she said, shaking her head and allowing him to use his thumbs to gently wipe the tears away. "Get used to seeing me cry when I'm happy, all right? And yes, I accept your proposal and I'll move in with you and two kids is probably enough but we'll see how we feel about it after the first one's born? And on that note," she added with another wicked grin, "I guess we can skip buying the condoms, yeah?"

"Yeah," he breathed in response, then hurried back to the car, crouching down and changing the flat in record time.

They had the rest of their lives together, but he was desperately impatient to start that 'rest of their lives' as soon as possible.


	13. Without Words

_thenewjefferson said: __Hi, Love your stories! Seriously, they make my day. So here's what's been in my mind. Sherlock can't talk for some reason and Molly has to figure out what he wants. No specific rating, you basically have free reign with this. Sorry, weak prompt, but this has been floating around my mind for a couple of days. Thank you so much!_

_miz-joely says: Medical note – the diagnosis below is based on actual medical data, but that's about all the research I did so forgive me if anything rings false. _

_Thanks as always to everyone who reads and follows and reviews, you keep me going!_

* * *

Sherlock not being able to talk seemed at first blush like a dream come true; no impromptu deductions, no snarky comments on her love life (or lack thereof), just blessed, golden silence whenever Sherlock was in the morgue or the path lab. Of course, once she realized he could still find ways to drive her and everyone else insane even without words, the shine faded quite a bit. And it didn't help that he'd lost his voice right smack in the middle of the Moriarty investigation, which had hit home for Molly a bit too closely for any kind of amusement to last for long.

But while she could she teased Sherlock, and she certainly wasn't the only one. Especially not after John Watson, through snorts of laughter, told them about the diagnosis handed down by Sherlock's doctor: overuse of the voice box by talking too much, exacerbated by excessive smoking (Sherlock had fallen off the nicotine wagon about ten seconds after his four minute exile). The only cure was time; Sherlock was admonished to not so much as whisper for a good week, drink hot tea liberally laced with honey…and stop smoking.

Both bits of advice had been thoroughly ignored by the stubborn man, thus increasing his inability to speak by at least another week. Until he grudgingly gave in to what a scribbled note described as 'John's incessant nagging' and surrendered his stash of smokes. The nicotine patches soon dotted his arms like a flock of oversized freckles.

His first contentious non-conversation/argument with Molly after the first week had passed, as a matter of fact, was over those very patches. He was using his favorite microscope, peering down at some ash that might lead him to discovering whether Moriarty was actually alive or whether they were dealing with a very clever imposter, when he rolled up his sleeves with a silent huff. The air conditioning had been rather spotty that day, and maintenance was working on it while all delicate experiments and lab samples were temporarily fridged, and he'd already discarded his suit jacket. Molly happened to walk in at that very instant; the sight of both arms virtually covered with nicotine patches had caused her to screech in wrath. "Sherlock Holmes! What the bloody HELL do you think you're doing?"

She'd managed to actually startle him; he jumped up and stared wildly at her, then swung his head around just as wildly, as if expecting to see an assassin sneaking up on him. Then her words had finally registered; he'd scowled and made to cover his arms, but she was having none of it. She marched right up to him and yanked off three of the four patches, waving them in his face as she snapped, "Are you trying to kill yourself? Four patches?" Peering at his arms suspiciously, she added, "Unless there's more under there?"

When she made as if to pull his sleeves up higher, he jumped back and folded his arms behind his back, shaking his head vigorously. When he opened his mouth as if to protest, however, she slapped her hand over his mouth. "No you don't, not unless you want to spend yet another week with no voice!"

He nodded acquiescence and she pulled her hand away, although his gaze remained sullen. Then, with elaborately exaggerated motions, he tugged his sleeves up higher to demonstrate that no, he hadn't slapped any more patches on. His face was very expressive, and Molly had no problem reading his meaning as he yanked the sleeves back down. "I don't care how high your tolerance is, Sherlock Holmes, you won't be overdosing on my watch."

He'd thrown his hands up in the air and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, scowl firmly in place, as if asking a higher deity why he was forced to put up with such nonsense. Molly had ignored him, gone about her business, and he'd sullenly returned to his seat at the microscope. But she felt his gaze on her every now and then, and did her best to ignore it. Honestly, the man was like a child sometimes, utterly heedless of the possible consequences of his actions – or pretending there wouldn't be any.

Before she left, she spoke to him again, making sure to hold his gaze as she said, "Look, Sherlock, I know this is frustrating, not being able to talk. And I know the real reason you're so frustrated is because of the whole Moriarty thing, but so help me God, if I catch you overusing the nicotine patches again, I swear I will tie you up and lock you in your room! And since you've got me staying in John's old bedroom – and since I also know you have a stash of purloined handcuffs littering the place – don't think I won't!"

She'd turned on her heel and left him, not noting the thoughtful look that had come over his face at her words – as if he'd suddenly seen her in an entirely different light…and liked what he saw.

Their next non-vocal (on his part) and extremely vocal (on her part) 'discussion' was witnessed by Phil Anderson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan (who thoroughly enjoyed Sherlock's inability to speak, especially at crime scenes, although she did keep all the sarcastic notes he gave her when they disagreed, posting them on her personal blog where the two of them spent furious hours snarking back and forth at one another and neither would admit to immensely enjoying), and John and Mary Watson. And baby Isabelle, of course, but the six-week-old managed somehow to sleep through it until the end, so she hardly counted.

It was two days after his and Molly's first dust-up; Sherlock had been meticulous about following her instructions, even going so far as to appear before her every day before she left for work (under escort by some of Mycroft's men, of course). Shirtless, and presenting his arms to her for inspection. Even though she rather sardonically noted that his doing so didn't stop him from slapping on a whole pile as soon as she was gone, she was willing to concede that he appeared to be taking better care of himself in spite of being essentially 24/7 on a case.

The shirtless part was unnecessary, but Molly certainly wasn't going to say so, since she very much appreciated the view. Yes, she'd firmly shut away her romantic hopes regarding the infuriating man, but she was realistic enough to know that shutting them away wasn't the same as no longer having them. And if Sherlock caught her gaze lingering a bit on his very fit, hairless chest before moving to his forearms, at least he couldn't say anything out loud about it. Surprisingly enough, he didn't even smirk at her when their eyes did meet, and Molly took it as a sign that he wanted her to know that yes, he was behaving, and that he took her threats – facetious though they had been – seriously.

So the second argument came as something of an unpleasant surprise; he'd gathered up his anti-Moriarty team in the secondary, and much smaller, path lab to give a bit of a slide show on the progress – or lack thereof – they'd made so far. When Molly arrived, it was entirely by accident; she'd come by because the main lab was inexplicably out of glass microscope slides.

The reason for her anger wasn't that she'd been excluded; Sherlock had taken to regularly attempting to keep her out of the loop; before he'd lost his voice he'd tried arguing that she was too visible a target. Since Moriarty or the person claiming to be him had blown up her flat, she couldn't really argue with that reasoning, but refused to let him wrap her up in a bubble (after all, had been her rebuttal, it had happened not only when she was away but when she'd taken Toby to the vet and none of her neighbors were home, either, so no one had actually been injured). Hell, she knew if he had his way she'd be hidden away in some government safe house until it was all over. She appreciated his concern, she really did, but enough was enough. "Sherlock!" she called as she allowed the door to shut behind her (wishing desperately that it could be allowed to slam rather than just sort of whooshing shut on its pneumatics). "Sorry I'm late!"

She smiled brightly as everyone turned to face her, then turned back, heads swiveling as if they were at a tennis match, to look at Sherlock's reaction. They all knew her struggles to remain informed of their activities, even at times like this when clearly the meeting had been called at the last minute. She would have a few choice words for them all, since not one of them had bothered to text her.

"He's blocked your number from our phones," Sally interjected before Molly could say anything, a huge grin on her face as she looked back at Sherlock. Who, predictably enough, was scowling. "You might want to have a chat with him about that after he's done with his little show and tell, yeah?"

Sherlock was clearly struggling with a desire to say something biting, and not wanting to risk his recovery yet again; in the end, he simply gave Molly one last scowl, then returned to his presentation. He continued to demonstrate his displeasure by elaborately ignoring both her and Sally as he texted responses to questions the others had.

When he'd finished and all questions had been answered (Sally had simply murmured hers to Greg, who had grinningly asked them aloud so Sherlock would have to respond), no one got up to leave, clearly wanting to see what Molly had to say to Sherlock. He, on the other hand, attempted to make his way out but was thwarted by the unmoving forms of his friends and colleagues…and by Molly, who was standing firmly in front of the door, arms crossed and brow lowered in a scowl that matched his in intensity. "Sherlock Holmes, for the last time, you cannot keep me in ignorance," she declared, deciding that, if the others wanted to witness a scene, then witness a scene they would. "I have guards, I'm never alone even at work, I'm staying at your flat – " A slight choking noise from Anderson told her that he'd been unaware of that little fact " – and I'm a grown woman! Why won't you stop trying to coddle me?"

Sherlock stalked up to her, the others finally moving aside and giving one another uneasy glances, as if sorry they'd stayed, but Molly refused to leave her post in front of the door. She jutted out her chin and glared up as Sherlock stopped directly in front of her. He raised his hands and threw them up in the air as he mouthed an exaggerated 'boom' at her.

"Yes, he blew up my flat, I understand, but he also tried to kidnap Isabelle and Mary, and yet here they both are!" she retorted.

"In fairness," Mary called out, the only one whose expression remained one of cheerful interest, "he did try to have us sent to a safe house after that. But I put my foot down; I won't be shunted aside, either, and I won't be separated from my husband and daughter. And Sherlock knows I can damned well take care of myself, baby or no baby," she added, raising her free hand and cocking her pointer finger and thumb in the universal symbol for a gun. Reminding them all that she was the best shot in the room, bar none. Even if Molly still had only the vaguest of theories as to how Mary had obtained that particular skill, she knew it to be true.

"Yes, I know I'm not a crack shot or a police officer or an ex-soldier," she agreed, catching the eyes of each and every person (except the still-sleeping Isabelle, of course) in the room, ending with Sherlock; although they'd given her verbal support in her efforts to be included, she couldn't help but notice that they didn't go out of their way to keep her informed, either. Even when Mr. Control Freak wasn't messing about with their mobiles. "But I'm not some helpless little damsel in distress, either. Or are you forgetting the scalpel incident?"

Sally and Lestrade sniggered, John pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully, and Sherlock's scowl deepened as he raked agitated hands through his dark curls. That had been the second incident to cause him to try and bundle Molly off to safety; a man had somehow made it to the morgue in spite of her bodyguards and the vigilance of her colleagues, and tried to drag Molly off with him. She'd fended him off with a scalpel – the one she'd just been using on a dead body, as a matter of fact, and was rather proud of the fact that the thug – unarmed, as he apparently believed she would be an easy target – had been cowed more by the threat of being contaminated by the horrible disease Molly claimed had killed the victim on her table (who'd actually died in a car accident, poor man) than by the meager weapon itself. But when she'd rather coolly told him she was just as adept with a bone saw, and snatched up that tool and turned it on, he'd turned and fled, to be stopped by Mycroft's men coming late to the scene.

He, as it turned out, had been paid via anonymous donor – burner phone, no names used – to make the snatch, and turned out to be a dead end. But the fact that the attempt had been made – even though Sherlock and MI5 and Lestrade all agreed it had been nothing but a feint, an attempt to test their defenses rather than an actual kidnapping – had been enough to cause Sherlock to try and send her away again.

"Instead of constantly trying to get me out of the way," she said when Sherlock had lowered his hands to his sides – clenched into tight, knuckle-whitening fists of frustration, she noted – "Why don't you concentrate on just stopping this maniac, whoever he is? And I think we all know it can't possibly be Jim; he wouldn't be this ineffectual, certainly not after nearly three months! At best he's a clever computer hacker who knows enough to keep things interesting for himself and to keep you off looking on the wrong track!"

She gave Sherlock a defiant stare, tilting her head a bit as she saw his expression turn from frustrated to thoughtful. Then his features lit up with an unexpected grin. Molly started to relax, thinking she'd finally gotten through to him, when he did something even more unexpected.

He reached up, cradled her head in his hands, swooped his own head down to meet hers…and kissed her.

The silence was deafening; for a long moment, Molly thought she might have gone deaf. But then, she was a wee bit distracted by the feel of Sherlock's mouth on hers, and what with kissing him back and all, it was no wonder it took her a moment to realize that everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath. As soon as the kiss ended, with Sherlock resting his forehead on hers and his hands still cradling her face – and her hands, as she discovered, wrapped tightly in his lapels – the room erupted into a veritable storm of cheers and clapping. Then of course Isabelle woke up and expressed her extreme displeasure with the sudden noise, which Molly found very helpful in that she desperately needed to regain her equilibrium.

After all, it wasn't every day a woman had the earth shift on its axis.

"Sherlock," she said, after moving aside and letting the others file out (with several 'about times' and 'took you long enoughs' from everyone but fussy Isabelle and cooing mommy Mary), "what the hell was that? Please don't tell me it was just a way to shut me up, because if it was…" She gave him a warning look and flexed her right hand meaningfully. "You'll think those slaps I gave you when you were using again were gentle pats!"

He shook his head violently, then caught her hands in his and pressed kisses to her knuckles. When he made to kiss her lips again, of course she let him, and of course she returned it. And when it ended, she smiled softly and pressed her palm to his cheek, whispering, "Oh, Sherlock, I love you too."

But before the next kiss she added, "And if you ever try to wrap me up in cotton-wool again, you impossible man, I promise you, you will NOT hear the end of it!"

He solemnly crossed his finger over his heart, and only then did she allow the third kiss to take place.

**Epilogue**

Less than a week later, just around the time Sherlock regained the use of his voice, the Moriarty imitator was apprehended. For services to Queen and country, Sherlock was fully pardoned for the Magnussen incident, and allowed to resume his former life with no restrictions.

Well, except for the ones Molly imposed on him of course; but he felt she was eminently reasonable in her requests that he keep the body parts and toxic experiments out of their home during her pregnancy and of course after their son was born, he continued to keep such activities limited to the lab at St. Bart's.


	14. Rival

_bat-lavril: __Probably a stupid prompt idea but here we go: Irene and Molly "competing" over Sherlock's heart and when Molly thinks she doesn't stand a chance, Sherlock convinces her of the opposite. (Possibly angst with happy ending? Thanks)_

_A/N: Tweaked the concept a bit, but I hope you still like it. And for the record I am a firm believer in happy endings in my fics. There's enough of the other kind in real life, why add to it? So yay for 14 prompts filled, only 6 to go!_

* * *

"So this is the infamous Miss Molly Hooper."

The woman's voice was a sultry purr with more than a hint of amusement to it. Molly paused on her way into the kitchen to deposit the groceries, turning to see who had spoken to her from the darkness of the parlor. It was no one Molly recognized, at least not by her voice, and she found herself trying to decide if she should make a run for the main entrance or just try to grab for a knife from the butcher's block.

"Don't worry, I'm not a threat…at least, not to your life," the woman said as she unfolded herself from Sherlock's chair, rising with a sinuous grace that Molly could see – and envy – even in the dimness of the early evening.

"Right, then," she said, backing into the kitchen and depositing the bags on the scarred table-top. "Not a threat to my life, got it. Sorry, who are you?" she asked as she flicked on the light switch, one hand reaching for her mobile…and not finding it where it should be, in her jacket pocket. No, she remembered where it was now; on the bottom of her handbag, still slung over her shoulder but hardly within reach should the intruder try anything.

Molly had backed herself against the counter, one hand casually reaching for the biggest knife, when the other woman came strolling into the room, stopping and leaning casually against the wall with a smirk on her lips that reminded Molly rather forcibly of Sherlock at his most sardonic. She was dressed in a slinky black catsuit that looked like it came from the Emma Peel collection, including the spike-heeled thigh-high boots that brought the woman up at least four inches in height. Otherwise, Molly judged, they'd be about the same height. They even had about the same build, which meant, possibly, that if it came to a fight she had a good chance of…

"I told you, Miss Hooper, I'm no danger to your life," the woman said, interrupting Molly's semi-hysterical thoughts, with a hint of disdain beneath the cool amusement she still projected. "Nor Sherlock's," she added. "I just came here to visit with an old…friend. I wasn't aware he'd made other living arrangements since our last chat."

Molly knew she wasn't imagining the slight hesitation before saying 'friend'; nor was she imagining the emphasis on the word 'chat', as if it held an entirely different meaning than the obvious. "Old friend," she repeated slowly, giving herself time to think.

The woman nodded, her gaze sharp and appraising, taking in Molly's rainbow-striped jumper and the brightly patterned blouse she wore beneath it, her rumpled khakis and sensible low-heeled shoes, her hair coming loose from its normally-neat ponytail – all of it a decided contrast to the other woman's well-put together outfit, perfectly made-up face, and obviously expensive haircut, a sleek bob that perfectly framed her face and emphasized her razor-sharp cheekbones. Molly might have been imagining the gleam of amusement in the stranger's eyes, but she doubted it. "Yes, an old friend," the woman confirmed, stroking her fingertips along the doorframe. "I thought I'd stop by for…dinner."

Dinner. The penny dropped, and Molly suddenly stopped thinking of ways to fight her way past the woman – no, make that The Woman – and instead offered her a warm smile. "Oh! You must be Irene Adler, Sherlock's told me so much about you! Please, can I offer you a glass of wine?"

She hid a grin as she turned to the cabinet behind her, deliberately showing the other woman her back and enjoying the nonplussed look she'd received before doing so. Obviously Irene wanted to put Molly on the back foot inside her own home, but she wasn't having any of it. "Red or white?" she asked politely as she pulled down three wine glasses. Sherlock was due home soon, unless of course he forgot they had dinner plans or was called away on a case or off in the middle of nowhere.

She slung her purse down off her shoulder and fished out her mobile, quickly shooting off a text to Sherlock, reminding him about dinner and informing him they had an unexpected – at least by Molly – guest. For all she knew Sherlock had been expecting Irene, but she doubted it. No, this visit smacked of an attempt at putting him as much on the back foot as Molly had originally been. Just another cat-and-mouse game, she thought with an inward sigh – but she had no intentions of being the mouse. Not this time.

When Irene made no response to her question, she turned and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Do you not care for wine, Miss Adler? Would you prefer tea?"

"Red will be fine," the other woman responded, offering Molly a smile that was about as genuine as one on a cartoon crocodile. She sauntered over to the table and pulled out a chair uninvited, draping herself over it to display her flawless figure to maximum effect as she examined one red-painted nail. "I must say, you're not quite what I expected. Not for Sherlock," she clarified, once again attempting to move in for the emotional kill. "I'd have thought the only woman he'd want in his life as an intimate partner would be…well, someone more like me, I suppose." She gave a brittle laugh.

Molly gritted her teeth but continued to pour the wine, acting like a good hostess. Remembering that she was, in fact, the hostess – that this was her flat now as well as Sherlock's – helped steady her. "Oh well, you know what they say, opposites attract," she replied as she handed Irene her glass and offered her a tight smile. "I hope this vintage suits."

Irene accepted the glass and took a sip. "Ah, yes, thank you so much. Sherlock always did have excellent taste in wine."

"And so does Molly; she's actually the one who selected that particular bottle."

Sherlock's voice came from the darkness of the parlor, causing Molly to start and curse a bit as she splashed some of her wine on her hand. Irene, of course, only turned smoothly to meet his gaze – which, Molly noted somewhat smugly, was openly hostile. "Woman, why are you in my flat harassing my pathologist?"

"Oh, she's just your new flat-share?" Irene asked, rising to her feet, clearly dismissing Molly's importance as she reached out to toy with the lapels to Sherlock's coat. "I mistook her for your romantic partner. Sorry for the misunderstanding!" she called over her shoulder without bothering to turn her head.

"Well, since you were right the first time and you're wrong this time, no apology needed!" Molly shot back, smirking as Sherlock shot her a surprised look. What, did he think she was going to let another woman come into their home and try to intimidate her with her posh looks and sexy clothes? If Sherlock wanted that, he would have stayed with Irene after their one-night-stand in Karachi.

Molly had the feeling Irene would be shocked if she knew that Sherlock had told anyone else about their time together, especially someone she clearly regarded as a romantic rival. Letting Irene know that Molly knew…that would be fighting dirty, and one thing Molly Hooper NEVER did was fight dirty. Unless it was literally to save her life or that of someone she loved, of course. But not just to show up a woman who had been doing her very best to show Molly up.

No matter how tempted she was to do so.

Sherlock seemed to have things well in hand; he was snapping out something about 'my pathologist' being an endearment, which Irene should find obvious, and demanding to know what she wanted. "You're not just here to ask me to 'dinner'," he said with a dismissive toss of his head as he moved past the woman to snag a bag of crisps from one of the Tesco's bags and rip it open. "So? What is it now? Who's after you this time?"

In spite of Irene's rude and obvious attempts to put Molly on the back foot, she found herself feeling somewhat sorry for the woman; clearly she'd been expecting a very different reaction from Sherlock than the one she'd gotten, and had expected Molly to just crumple like a used tissue under her snide comments. It was too bad Molly didn't feel sorry enough to ask her to stay for dinner – no innuendo intended! – but instead busied herself putting the rest of the groceries away while Irene tried to capture Sherlock's attention.

When it became clear even to Sherlock that Irene had come for the express purpose of reigniting their past relationship – the dear man was a deductive genius, true, but still rather clueless when it came to interpersonal interactions, Molly thought fondly as she put the lettuce in the crisper – he told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested, being blunt even for Sherlock. But making it crystal clear that what Miss Irene Adler wanted was never going to happen.

She made one valiant last-ditch effort – "Darling, your little pet could join us, you know my tastes!" – but Sherlock simply walked into the front room, opened the door, and waited, one foot tapping impatiently, for Irene to get the hint.

She was gone with a last, annoyed look at Molly, not even trying to hide her disbelief that Sherlock was giving up a chance with HER to stay with – well, HER, a lab mouse he didn't even call his girlfriend.

As soon as he'd closed – and locked – the door behind her, Sherlock rushed back to the kitchen, where Molly had just finished putting the last of the tinned vegetables away. "Molly, I'm so sorry," he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her fervently. "That woman – I told her that if she ever needed me, to let me know and I'd help her, but I swear I never meant…"

"Shh, it's all right," Molly reassured him, tiptoeing up to kiss him on the nose. "You handled her brilliantly, darling."

Sherlock squinted at her as if unsure if she was teasing him or not. "And you're not upset with me?" he asked, sounding very uncertain.

"Nope," she replied, popping the final 'p' the way he so often did when being cheeky. Molly reached up to ruffle his hair fondly. "Sherlock, if you wanted to be with a woman like her, then you would be. You and I would just be friends, like we were for so long." She shrugged. "And that would be that."

"Molly Hooper, this is just one of the many, many reasons I'm so glad I got my head out of my arse where you were concerned," Sherlock announced with a delighted grin. He swooped her up into his arms; Molly shrieked with laughter and wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her toward their bedroom. "I once told Irene that love was a chemical defect found on the losing side, but d'you know, I'm beginning to think I might have been wrong about that."

"Fancy that," Molly replied with a grin. They kissed, and she giggled as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind them.


	15. Love Is More Than A Piece of Paper

_ordinarilygraceful said: __Prompt time :D Sherlock was not one for marriage. He was fine with his and Molly's arrangement - they lived together, they loved each other, they didn't need a piece of paper to prove their commitment to one another. However an event/a situation (you decide what) makes Sherlock change his mind entirely. Problem is now Molly is not so sure she wants to get married anymore either. After all, they don't need a piece of paper to say they love each other._

* * *

"No."

"Molly, please, don't be so stubborn and unreasonable!"

She turned to stare incredulously at her partner, the man she'd been romantically involved with (and living with) for just shy of a year – and the father of her unborn child, which fact she had just (rather nervously) announced, having just discovered her 'interesting condition' herself. "I'm being stubborn and unreasonable? Just because I don't want to get married? Is any part of this conversation striking you as just the tiniest bit ironic?"

She'd tentatively broached the subject of marriage about six months into their co-habitation, which had begun during The Moriarty Return as a simple flat-share and way for Sherlock to keep an eye on her once she was shown to be the main target of the madman's revenge. Sherlock had scoffed at the idea, declaring marriage as an entirely unnecessary complication. "After all," he'd pointed out as he took her in his arms, "we live together, we love one another – we don't need a piece of paper to prove our commitment to one another!" And then he'd kissed her, so softly and sweetly that she'd practically melted in his arms, and hadn't broached the subject again.

That had been four months ago. And now, after she'd decided that Sherlock was right, NOW he changed his mind? And of course it was only because of the baby, she thought angrily. Nothing else had changed, only two quietly spoken words less than fifteen minutes previous. _I'm pregnant._ And _now_ he wanted to get married? And had the gall to accuse her of being stubborn and unreasonable on top of it!? Oh, no, he was NOT getting away with it, not this time.

"No, Sherlock, we are NOT getting married just because I'm pregnant!" she shouted, not even caring that the door to their flat was wide open. "Like you said, we don't need a piece of paper to prove our commitment to one another!" She attempted to lower her voice into a mimicry of his own, but of course failed miserably. Nor did she care, although she did scowl at the sight of him obviously trying to keep from laughing at her.

Molly smacked him on the arm, hard. "Don't laugh at me!" she said, tears pooling in her eyes. Damn, she never cried, she wasn't the crying type, stupid pregnancy hormones! And stupid Sherlock Bloody Holmes for deciding, probably for the first time in his entire, stupid life, to do the expected thing and propose to her just because she was carrying his baby!

She might have lowered her voice a bit if she wasn't so wrapped up in the budding argument to notice that she and Sherlock currently had an audience; a wide-eyed Mrs. Hudson stood just outside the door, one hand frozen in the act of knocking, the other with fingers splayed over her lips. She turned at the sound of footsteps and hushed Mary Watson as she joined her in the hall. "What's wrong?" Mary whispered, eyes alight with curiosity and concern.

"They're having a bit of a domestic," Mrs. Hudson whispered back, hands fluttering in agitation as she quickly summed up the row still going on behind them.

They were soon joined by John, holding a sleeping baby Isabelle in his arms and wearing a confused look on his face. "Why are we…" he started, but was quickly hushed by the two women, who turned to him with identical fingers pressed to their lips. "Why are we standing in the hall?" he demanded in a whisper, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Sherlock asked Molly to marry him, but only after he found out she was pregnant," Mary hissed, turning back to peek through the door.

"Idiot," John murmured, crowding behind the others to see if he could see any better from his marginally higher vantage point. All he could see was the back of Molly's head and the tip of Sherlock's nose as he bellowed something about Molly being ridiculous, to which she replied that he was being an ass. Instead of moving away, Mary moved closer to the door, unashamedly eavesdropping as John tried to usher his wife and Mrs. Hudson back down the stairs, but neither woman budged, so he simply sighed and resigned himself to having to beg for Molly's forgiveness when she inevitably discovered their presence. Sherlock, on the other hand, he had no sympathy for; if the idiot had decided to change his mind about marriage strictly because a baby was coming, his sympathies were firmly on Molly's side.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, the man famous for his deductive skills had failed to realize that a) his pathologist was on the verge of bursting into very uncharacteristic tears, b) what the blazes she was so angry about in the first place, and c) that they had a very curious audience. Luckily for said audience, Isabelle at two months old was a very, very sound sleeper (Mary's mother had once told her daughter that the key to getting a child who could sleep through anything was to always hoover the room while said child was napping, and advised Mary that if she ever had a baby to do so as soon as possible after they came home from hospital).

"Molly, I know what I said before," Sherlock said as he tugged at his hair in frustration. Why wasn't she listening to him? "There's nothing wrong with changing one's mind – and why is it so wrong that I want to make things official now that there's a baby on the way? Yes, things have been going quite well – up to now – and I admit that having seen how well they've been going caused me to change my mind some time ago…"

"Wait, hold on," Molly snapped, folding her arms across her chest and glaring up at him. The tears still hadn't fallen but they were close. She blinked rapidly and said, "What caused you to change your mind? Are you trying to tell me you wanted to get married before I told you I was pregnant?" Her glare turned murderous and she unfolded her arms in order to shake a finger in Sherlock's face. "Because if you're just backpedaling and making that up to appease me, don't you even try! I'm just as good at telling when you're lying as Mary Watson is, don't ever doubt that!"

He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Of course I know that!" he said with a scowl just as ferocious as her own. "I'm not an idiot!" He took a deep breath and once again tugged at his hair. "The truth is, after mulling over your reasons for getting married – as a visible, public sign of our commitment to one another – I changed my mind. Ever since then, I've been trying to find the right moment to broach the subject with you. This seemed like the perfect time, although now I'm getting the impression that I might have been incorrect!"

Molly rolled her eyes, but her tears had subsided and her anger had defused at this agitated confession on Sherlock's part. "Of course you were incorrect, you git," she said, her voice back to normal as she poked a fond but exasperated finger in the center of his chest. He was wearing her favorite dressing gown, the sapphire blue one, over his rattiest t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, while she was still fully dressed in her work clothes. It occurred to her that she really wanted them both to be naked, but she wanted to finish this quasi-argument first. "Sherlock, if you changed your mind about getting married, you should have let me know instead of just proposing so I thought it was just you suffering from some sudden fit of 'ordinary humanness' or something! I thought all you wanted was to make sure the baby had your name or that I wouldn't be branded a – a – scarlet woman!"

His face scrunched up in that adorable way it had of doing when he was utterly confounded by something she'd said to him. "What the hell is a scarlet woman?" he demanded. Without giving her time to respond, he continued: " And why would I want the baby to have my name? It's boring, and what if it's a girl? I may have jokingly told John Sherlock was actually a girl's name, but we both know that's not true. Although," he added thoughtfully, tapping his chin and eyes going foggy as he lost himself in his thoughts, "I suppose if you added an 'e' to the end, or an 'ette' or an 'ina'…"

Molly poked him again, this time to get his attention, grinning wildly. "Nope," she said, shaking her head as she popped the final 'p' in imitation of his occasional habit. "I meant your last name, silly!"

He looked, if anything, even more confused. "Why? You're the one having the baby, it never made sense to me that the surname should automatically be that of the father when the mother is the one who's done all the work…"

That was the moment Molly decided she'd never loved him more. Lunging forward, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him wildly. He wrapped his arms round her waist, and she was just about to start undoing the tie to his dressing-gown when they were interrupted by the sound of whistles and cheers from the doorway. Breaking off the kiss, Molly and Sherlock both craned their necks round to stare, flabbergasted, at the sight of Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and John (holding their goddaughter Isabelle, who blinked sleepily up at her father as he whistled enthusiastically) standing in the doorway. "Uh, what is this, exactly?" Molly asked as she pulled back from Sherlock – her fiancé, she supposed, although he hadn't exactly asked again and she hadn't exactly said yes. At least, not yet.

"This is us coming over for a dinner which you very clearly have forgotten about," Mary said cheerfully as she accepted a now-fussing Isabelle from John. She cuddled her daughter closer, then stepped fully into the flat and peered exaggeratedly into the kitchen. "No signs of anything cooking, no Tesco's or take-away bags, so it is safe to say that you forgot? Both of you?" Waggling her eyebrows, Mary plunked herself onto the sofa and opened up her blouse in order to give her actively rooting daughter access to her left breast.

Molly groaned and buried her face in Sherlock's chest. "Yes, I forgot," she said, her voice muffled and the tips of her ears turning bright red with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock kissed the top of her head and hugged her tighter before releasing her and digging into his dressing-gown pocket for his mobile. "Right, Chinese or Indian?" he asked, fingers moving rapidly over the screen. "Never mind, Mary's breastfeeding so nothing spicy, got it!" He waved distractedly, head down over the screen, and wandered into the bedroom. Molly hoped it was so he could get dressed (well, to be honest she wanted him to get undressed, but with company and all it wasn't likely to happen).

"Molly!" he called out just before disappearing from view. "Come and get changed, Mrs. Hudson can get the drinks for everyone, right? Right!"

Molly smiled apologetically at the others, gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, and followed after Sherlock. "I do need to change, there were some unfortunate, um, incidents with spills today," she said, pointing out a few stains on the hems of her trousers. "The new intern was carrying a jar of – uh, never mind," she added hastily as she saw Mrs. Hudson's face turn a bit green. "Anyway, I'll be out in two ticks, sorry for forgetting!" Then she, too, vanished into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Mary looked at John, who looked at Mrs. Hudson, who sighed and shook her head. "Come downstairs, luvs, and have some tea once the baby's fed," she said resignedly. "Else you'll both be treated to listening to the two of them going at each other like rabid otters. Honestly, the things I have to put up with!"

Mary, still nursing Isabelle, rose abruptly to her feet. "No need to wait, Izzy and I have perfected the art of feeding and walking, haven't we darling?" she cooed down to the baby, while shooting an uneasy glance at the bedroom door. From behind which were issuing some very suspicious sounding thumps and noises that might have been groans. "Come along, John, a cup of tea is just the thing!"

"God, yes," he replied with feeling. As the three of them headed back downstairs, John courteously offering Mrs. Hudson his arm, he could be heard to say, "Did I ever tell you about the time a few months back when Sherlock texted me to come over for a case, and I caught the two of them…"

Sherlock listened until he heard their voices fading, then returned to very enthusiastically letting Molly – his fiancée, he thought with a great deal of satisfaction – know that it most certainly was _not_ just that she was pregnant that made him want to marry her.

And in the end she agreed – as she always did, he thought smugly –that he was absolutely right.


End file.
